Mitzvahs
by Capella
Summary: Draco is sent to Azkaban for something he did not do and when he escapes, the only thought on his mind is to kill who sent him there: Harry Potter. Slash. New June 23, 2005.
1. Chapter One

Mitzvahs 

Chapter One

by Capella

A/N: (June 23, 2005): Slight change -- well, not slight. This fic IS slash.

Just so you know, this has nothing to do with Jews. Mitzvahs just means "good deeds" in Hebrew; I heard it somewhere and it stuck. shrugs

Review!

Thanks!

* * *

"Oderint Dum Metuant.

(Let them hate so long as they fear.)"

Lucius Accius

* * *

"You can always come stay with Remus and me, you know. You don't have to stay with your father."

Draco looked sideways at Potter -- Harry. Harry was squinting against the sun so that his eyes were just slits with bright green barely showing, and his lips were curled into a tentative smile. Draco could almost believe that he was being sincere.

"You and Remus and who else?"

A faint blush rose to Harry's cheeks. "Mandy," he mumbled, and Draco's eyebrows rose.

"Brocklehurst?" he said, smiling, and Harry nodded, his face bright red. "From Ravenclaw?"

"Yes, okay?" Harry exclaimed. "She's staying with me for a few days over break." The color in his face had gone down, but there was still a faint red stain high up on his cheeks.

"Well, she's pretty," he said, and Harry shot him a sharp look. "I like black hair and blue eyes. She's on their Quidditch team, too --"

"You keep your paws off of her, Malfoy," Harry said, but there was a teasing note in his voice that said he was not entirely serious. The Hogwarts train whistled, three sharp impatient notes. Draco's heart leapt in his chest.

"I have to go," he said, and Harry nodded. Students rushed past them onto the train, a few of them pausing and looking at them curiously. Harry looked as though he was trying to decide something. "Potter," Draco said impatiently, and suddenly he was pulled into a hug. Harry's hands were tentative on his back and they shook nervously.

As suddenly as he was pulled into the hug he was released. Harry stood in front of him, his hands fluttering at his sides.

"Potter --" he said, still feeling the warmth of the embrace. He had never been hugged before; not by his father or his mother or his friends. It was -- an odd feeling, not particularly unpleasant.

"You're my friend, right?" Harry said all in a rush. Draco raised an eyebrow.

"I am." It felt strange to say it, although he didn't know why; Harry had just hugged him, for God's sake.

He wasn't quite sure how it had lead to this; all he had done one day his sixth year was decide that he was tired of being cruel to Harry every day when Harry seemed to be struggling so badly with life. Suddenly, Harry was smiling at him during lunch and stopping him in the hall to ask him how his day had been or what new moves he'd thought of for his Quidditch team; he asked about Draco's girlfriend and braved the Slytherin lunch table a few times just to sit together.

Harry smiled at him, a blinding smile, and Draco felt his lips twitch in response.

"Get on the damn train," Harry said, still grinning, and gave his shoulder a push. "Give your father my regards."

An odd little shiver went up Draco's spine. He wanted badly to take Harry up on his offer; to go stay with Remus and Harry and Mandy, a father-figure and his son and his girlfriend, an honest to God family. "Good-bye," he said instead, turning towards the train, and each step was heavier than the last.

Lucius was waiting for him at the train station. The ride home was taken in silence; Draco was dropped off and Lucius left without a word. He hadn't looked at Draco the entire time.

By the time dinner came that night, Draco had began to feel the first pangs of nervousness.

Draco showed up at the dinner table at exactly six-thirty on the last day of his Christmas break. It was when his father always ate dinner, when he wasn't out. Draco had dressed nicely, in a dark green shirt and loose black trousers. His father always liked him to dress well for dinner when he was on break or during the summer.

His father was standing behind his chair already at the head of the table, and he motioned for Draco to sit down to his right, the place where Draco's mother usually sat. Draco's skin tingled. There were only two places set at the table.

"Where's Mother?" he asked, hiding the dismay he felt at enduring an entire silent dinner with his father. Lucius gave him a penetrating gaze with cold gray eyes.

"She is away to visit relatives," he said at last. Draco barely contained his surprise -- his mother disliked most of her relatives, only saw them around holidays, and Christmas had come and gone. But he refused to satisfy his father by exposing the least bit of curiosity or worry, so he took his place at the table.

Lucius rang a small bell and a house elf ran into the room, carrying two trays filled with a raw, red steak. Draco hated meat so rare that it bled; he hadn't known his father liked it either.

Draco had choked down half his steak by the time his father finally spoke, and Lucius's voice was so sudden in the engulfing silence that Draco dropped a piece of meat onto the floor.

"I know what you are doing, Draco, and I do not approve of it."

Draco glanced at his father, but Lucius's eyes remained focused on the food in front of him. He lifted a piece of steak to his mouth and looked at Draco for a mere second, but that second was all it took, and Draco knew instantly what his father meant.

"I don't know what you mean, Father," he said instead, and his father's brows lowered in annoyance.

"You were never a rebellious child," Lucius murmured, casting another glance at Draco from underneath lowered lashes, and the look somehow set a shaking inside Draco's bones. From anger, not fear. "Your mother and I took the best care of you, and you loved us for it. I cannot understand why you have chosen this time, this situation, to finally rebel against me."

Draco clenched his fork in a tight grip in agitation, but he was not nervous, not yet. His father had not scared him since he was a little boy, when threats and irritated looks had been his worst fears. He tried again. "Father, I do not know --"

"Harry Potter, you ignorant child." It was something that should have been delivered in a shout, but Lucius said it softly and calmly, as if it was not something that sent Draco's heart racing in his chest. "Your two sycophants informed on you to me. Did you think I would not hear? That I was getting feebleminded? Foolish, foolish child. You shall not like your punishment for this."

Draco was left reeling in his chair as his father's speech was driven home. Crabbe and Goyle had betrayed him, and his father knew about his fragile, tentative relationship with Potter. Harry. And his father was going to punish him.

"Father, I --" But he did not know what to say. Fear and anger and guilt warred for supremacy, and he was left floundering for words that would not come. His father sat calmly, eating his meal.

"There is a Death Eater initiation tonight. You will come with me, and I shall present you to my lord. Lord Voldemort has grown tired of waiting."

"I won't come with you to that meeting."

Lucius went on as if Draco had not said a word.

"After the meeting, we will come home and discuss your punishment, if you are in the shape for it. I shall prepare you after dinner for your initiation."

"I won't go," Draco snarled. "I won't follow your stupid rules anymore, Father. I think I'm going to enlist in Dumbledore's Army just to piss you off."

"Be quiet, Draco," Lucius said, glancing over at him, stabbing a bit of steak on the end of his fork. It dripped red juices onto his plate. "You sound like a mindless teenager having a temper tantrum." Contrary to his quiet tone, Lucius's eyes flashed dangerously. Draco never even saw Lucius's other hand sneak to his left side, where the snake cane leaned on the arm of the chair.

"I am a teenager, Father, in case you missed my last ten birthdays," Draco said angrily, staring at his father and refusing to back down from the look in his father's eyes. "And I will not be a Death Eater just because you tell me to. I --"

He fell out of his chair and his cheek hit the ground with a dull thud, blood spraying out of his mouth onto the floor. His hand lifted, trembling, to his cheek, touching gingerly the jagged cut that the snake of Lucius's cane had made when it had struck his face.

Lucius stared down at him coldly and shook the cane, and a tiny drop of blood from the tip of one of the fangs hit Draco on the hand. Draco sat up slowly, and he stared at his father in shock.

"Father?" he said, his voice shaking, the fight gone out of him completely.

Lucius did not even blink. "You will terminate your friendship with Harry Potter," he said in an even tone. Draco's heart raced in his chest.

"Fine," he said after a moment. His father was not omnipresent. He would not know if Draco simply lied now and did not do as he said.

Suddenly his father's hand flashed, and Draco caught the vial thrown at his face out of a Seeker's reflex. There was a dark, murky green potion behind the clear glass. Draco stared at it, uncomprehending for a moment, and then looked up at his father. Lucius's face showed no emotion.

"You will terminate the friendship with this."

Draco's eyes widened for a second. "Poison," he whispered, dropping the vial as if it burned him. The glass tinkled on the stone floor and rolled beneath the table, resting at Lucius's feet. It did not break.

Lucius smiled briefly and without humor. "Good boy," he said, and his hand came down to stroke Draco's hair out of his face. Draco flinched back before he could help it, and his father's lips tightened into a thin white line. A bit of blood dribbled out of the corner of Draco's mouth from where one of his teeth had cut into the inside of his cheek. Lucius straightened and handed him a napkin; Draco wiped away the blood numbly, still staring up at his father's expressionless face.

"You will take the potion and go to your room. Pack for your return to school tomorrow. Put the poison in Harry Potter's drink in the next three days." Lucius picked up his fork and delicately ate the piece of steak. "I will know if you do not kill him, and if you refuse, he will be brought back here. I assure you that you will not like what I do to him." Lucius picked up his fork and delicately ate the piece of steak.

"You're bluffing," Draco said and was relieved to hear his voice sound steady. "If you could capture him, you would have done it by now."

Lucius merely looked at him steadily, and Draco felt his insides quiver with the fear of impending pain, pain that he had never received at the hands of his father before today.

"Would you really like to find out?" Lucius said finally, and Draco realized that he did not want to.

Draco stretched out a hand, hesitated a moment, and crawled forward to retrieve the potion, resting at Lucius's feet. He shut his eyes, shuddering, expecting to feel a boot dig into his stomach. Instead, he heard his father sigh impatiently; Draco straightened with the poison clenched in one hand and his other gripping his pant leg.

After a moment, in which neither father nor son said a word, Draco turned to go.

"Son."

Draco turned, his hair falling over his forehead and hiding his eyes, and he was grateful for it.

"Put some more clothes on," Lucius said, the tiniest hint of a smile in his voice. "You're shivering."

* * *

Lucius came to his room later that night. Draco was so busy packing, throwing his clothes into his suitcase with an enraged vigor, that he did not hear his father come in.

"There is still the matter of your punishment."

"Jesus!" Draco said, his heart going up in his throat. The clothes in his arms flew out of his arms and onto the bed. "Knock next time, Father."

He turned and there his father stood in the doorway, imposing in black pants and a flowing black shirt that stood out stark against his blonde-white hair. "You will come with me, now," Lucius said quietly.

"You're not being serious about this."

Lucius simply stared at him, a dangerous glint in his eye, and that was all it took to get Draco's feet moving slowly across the carpet. He was barefoot, and the soft threads of the rug were soothing against the soles of his feet. It was a shock when he felt the cold of the stone hallway underneath his toes.

He looked up questioningly at his father, who simply wrapped Draco's wrist in a surprisingly strong grip.

"Where are you taking me?" he demanded, trying to yank his arm out of his father's grip, but Lucius merely tightened his hand and dragged Draco along. His father tugged him insistently in the direction of the stairs that went down, and Draco felt a sick curdling in the pit of his stomach. "You would not dare," he said. "You would not dare take me to the dungeons."

His father glanced down at him with steely gray eyes. "You would be surprised what I dare, my son," he said, and suddenly he flung Draco forward.

Draco's head hit the stone of the steps first and he was almost unconscious for the rest of the trip down. He lay crumpled in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, his head ringing, black spots dancing in front of his eyes. He moaned faintly.

The dungeons were surprisingly warm, and that should have set warning bells off in his head. Instead, he drifted in the pleasant stillness between consciousness and darkness, trying to pretend that he was in his bed and that his father had not just thrown him into hell.

A boot dug into his ribs and he barely stifled his yelp, getting to his feet instead so fast that the world spun. His father was there, in front of him, looking at him with those damned never-changing eyes.

"Come with me."

"Like hell," Draco snarled, and his father sighed.

"Come with me, or you will be made to, and I assure you that it will not be a pleasant experience."

Draco hesitated and then made his feet move, step by step, closer to where his father stood now in the open doorway of a chamber. He had to resist the most intense desire to shut his eyes as he stepped through the door.

He might have gasped; he wasn't sure.

"Father," he whispered without knowing why as he looked at his -- punishment. Chains on the walls. Whips on a table. Other instruments that he neither knew or desired to know the use of. Strangely enough, there was a fire in the middle of the room, crackling merrily, with something that looked like a stretcher floating above it. He glanced up at his father, who was looking at the room with a sick sort of fondness.

"You have never been here before, have you, my son?"

"No," he said, and was proud that his voice was steady and calm.

"Let me introduce you as to how these things are done. Take off your clothes."

Draco flushed, and the most absurd sense of prudery rose in him. "No."

Draco's father sighed again, looking more annoyed than anything else. "Draco, that is a very nice shirt that your mother gave you. I do not want to explain to her why it is ripped and stained." Stained with what, he did not say, but he did not have to.

"Fine," Draco said, and peeled off his shirt and trousers, leaving him shivering in the middle of the room in his undergarments despite the fierce heat emanating from the fire.

"Do you see those chains, Draco?" his father said. "The ones hanging there, about your height if you braced yourself against the wall."

"You're really going to do this?" Draco asked, feeling faintly the need to vomit. His father's lips twisted in a smirk.

"Of course I will not do it," he said, and then, even before Draco began to feel the tiniest bit of hope, "I have those who will do it for me."

Two men moved out of the shadows in the corners of the room not lit by the fire and moved towards Draco. Their faces were masked to right beneath their noses, a wide slit cut for each eye. Their grinning mouths beneath the brown leather were sinister, and Draco felt panic slowly begin to rise until he had to bite his lip to keep from protesting. But he was not worried, not really, not yet. He was his father's only son; his father would not dare to hurt him too badly. It was a scare tactic. He was so bitterly sure.

It wasn't until the men had wrestled him to the wall and forced both of his hands inside the cruel, steel cuffs at the ends of the chains that the reality set in; and by then it was too late, and the lathes of a whip struck his side with a crack and curled around to hit the edges of his belly.

He barely stifled a cry behind his clenched teeth.

"What are you doing, Father?" he said in a raised voice, almost desperate, and the next whipstroke hit him across his shoulderblades; it burned as if he had been cut by a knife. One of the men muttered something and the other laughed, and the crack of the whip was audible in the dead, still dungeon air as it struck his back again.

"Giving you your punishment," his father said, a smile in his voice. "You should know by now that I never say anything that I do not mean."

The next whipstroke hit him on the back of his thigh. He crumpled to one knee, grimacing in pain, trying to get up to his feet even as the two men laughed behind him. He had just gotten up when the whip hit him across his lower back and buttocks; he finally let out a cry at the pain and the humiliation, and the fact that his father was the cause of it all.

It continued on and on; Draco stopped counting at thirty, but it could have been three times that by the time the men were satisfied. All he knew was that his back was on fire.

"That is enough," his father said, and Draco sagged in his bonds, filled with relief at the fact that his punishment was over and his father had not forced one damn tear out of him. His father must have made some sort of signal that he could not see, facing the wall as he was, for Draco heard the men drop their whips onto the table and pick something else up.

Moments later, Draco felt a fine sprinkling of something on his skin.

He twisted his head and stared down at the fine blue coating over his left arm, and even as he watched, it disappeared, seemingly into his flesh. "Father," he said, and then stopped, a bit unnerved. Lucius laughed quietly, a sound that sent shivers up his spine.

"Did you think that was your punishment?" he said fondly. "No, my son. Put him on the rack."

Oh God, Draco had learned about the rack in DADA his sixth year, when they were talking about banned torture methods and Hermione had brought up Muggle tortures, and Lupin had laughed and talked about the rack and the hot irons and other things that he did not want to think about.

The two men came and let him out of his shackles, and he fought like a wild thing until one of them planted a beefy fist in between his ribs. He doubled over, wheezing, and they grasped his arms again.

The rack turned out to be the odd stretcher floating above the fire. Strangely, it seemed to be made of a very fine fabric that did not break when he was made to lie on it. One of the hooded men took both his wrists in one huge hand and gripped them so tightly above Draco's head that he felt his circulation being cut off. He soon found out why.

The fire rose up from beneath him and warmed his back almost pleasantly for a few moments. He stared up at the menacing black eyes of the man above him and raised an eyebrow, trying his best to be haughty and mocking while wondering what torture they planned next. The man grinned down -- and waited.

A faint prickling started in his limbs, as if he were being pinched by hundreds of fingers. He squirmed a little at the unpleasantness, but his true source of discomfort were the stripes of pain on his back and legs.

The pinching turned into a burning so abruptly that he gasped as it spread along his skin, up his arms and down his legs, as if he was being held in the fire instead of over it; sweat slicked his skin until it looked as if he'd been drenched in oil. He gasped for air, and suddenly knew what the purpose of that odd powder was that had been put on his flesh.

"What was it?" he panted, his eyes rolling around the room in search of his father. His voice rose until he was yelling. "What was it? What the hell did you do to me?"

His father's face appeared suddenly before his own, so close that their noses were nearly touching. His father's lip was curled as if he smelled something unpleasant.

"Get this shit off of me," Draco screamed, and his father winced.

"Not so loudly, Draco, please. I do not want you to wake your mother."

Draco froze; he stopped twisting his hands in the strong man's grip and laid still, and it wasn't even an effort although his skin felt as if it were on fire. "You lied to me," he said, tears of anger in his eyes. "You said she was gone. Does she know that I'm down here?"

Lucius's lips curled into a cold smile. "If I said yes," he said, "what would you do?"

Tears spilled down his cheeks and he snarled up at his father's cruel countenance, but he had no answer.

Suddenly the burning in his flesh escalated; he gasped and arched his back, and his father smiled again.

"I just want two words from you, Draco, and you shall be released."

"Tell me," Draco said, completely prepared to lie if he had to.

Lucius put two fingers underneath his son's chin and tilted his face upwards until Draco was looking straight into his father's clear gray eyes.

"I recant."

"Oh, like hell," Draco managed to choke out, and then he had to use his breath to pull air into his lungs as he panted desperately. His father shook his head, a disappointed look on his face. It took a minute before he could speak again. "I learned about the damned Spanish Inquisition. I'm not going to play along with your stupid games. You can go straight to hell for all I care. I will not say that for you."

Lucius sighed and motioned to the hooded torturer not occupied with holding Draco's arms down. "Then I'm afraid you will not be allowed to speak until you do."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Yes, I would."

Draco had indeed learned all about the Inquisition; his father was fascinated by it, had a number of books on it in his library. Draco had read one when he had been bored. It seemed that heretics were fitted with a device that pained the throat and were only allowed to speak two words -- "I recant."

He hadn't actually thought his father would use the Heretic's fork on him.

"Father --" he said, beginning to feel a bit panicky despite himself as the torturer rummaged around on the table; Draco could hear the clank of metal on metal, and his stomach twisted itself in knots when the noise stopped. "Father, I --"

Lucius smiled. "I'm afraid it's too late to plead with me now, Draco."

"Plead, my ass," Draco growled, although he had been almost ready to do just that. The hooded man was at his side now, the object in his hand. Draco got a really good look at it and shut his eyes so tightly that spots appeared. "Oh, my God." It was just as the book had described it. A steel rod with two spikes on each end, and a collar just the right size to go around a throat attached to the middle of the rod.

"I would keep my eyes closed, if I were you." Lucius sounded delighted at getting a reaction. "I am always told that the anticipation is the worst. Do tell me if I am right."

His mind scrambled anxiously to remember just what that book had said the use of a Heretic's fork was.

'With the four sharp points rammed deep into the flesh under the chin and into the bone of the sternum, the fork prevented all movement of the head and allowed the victim only to murmur "abiuro" or "I recant, which was engraved on the side of the fork." '

"Oh, God," he whispered, and the man above him chuckled.

"Chin up, now," he said in a rumbly tone. Draco felt the cold touch of metal on his collarbone.

* * *

He could hear his father laughing above his own screams.

"What did you say, Draco?"

A mumble, incoherent and punctured by hitching sobs, escaped Draco's throat before he could help himself.

"Remove it," Lucius said; Draco almost whimpered in relief. The spikes slid out of his chin and collarbone, and he gasped at the excruciating pain. Blood flowed down his chest; his skin was sticky with it. There was not a place on his body that his torturers had missed. It had made it somehow worse that he was almost unable to scream; with that fork jammed in his skin to keep his mouth shut, all he had managed were choking shrieks that his father had laughed at.

"Repeat for me what you said."

Draco's throat hurt too much to talk for a moment. He could see the impatience in his father's face.

"Continue," Draco's father said in a bored tone, waving a hand, and the hooded man grinned wickedly and nodded, going over to the table again. Draco could hear the clank of metal.

The hooded man held up some device for Lucius's inspection, and Lucius smiled slightly and nodded. "That will do, I think."

Oh God, Draco knew what that instrument was. His heart was pounding wildly in his chest; the man was heading for the small fire in the corner, separate from the one he himself was being held over. His father motioned to the man again, and his torturer held the ripper into the fire. Suddenly, Draco snapped.

"I recant!" he screamed. "Oh my God, I recant!" The hooded man turned the ripper in the fire, opening the tongs menacingly and grinning in his direction. Draco's eyes rolled wildly around the room, panic gripping his chest until he couldn't breathe. "Please, Daddy! I'll be good! Please make them stop! I'll be good, I swear I'll be good from now on if you make them stop!"

He was crying, screaming hysterically, all thought of rebellion gone; he just wanted -- needed -- the pain to stop before he lost his mind. Oh, God, the hooded man was picking up the ripper from out of the flames, it was glowing red hot with heat, and Draco didn't know if the man would actually go through with it, but the thought was too much for him to take, and the man holding his hands above his head was grinning down at him; the gash on his cheek from when his father had hit him was pulsing with every beat of his heart, and as Draco saw the man approach with a smile and that ripper, Draco knew that he would rather die than go through anything else --

"Stop."

Suddenly the hands that were nearly breaking his wrists were gone, and the man holding the ripper was gone, and the fire underneath where he lay was doused. He felt the most urgent need to get off of the odd torture-sling that he had been held to, and he rolled off of it onto the floor, curling into a tight ball, gasping and sobbing.

A hand came down to stroke his sweat-slicked hair and he was too tired to cringe.

"Please," he sobbed, his breath hitching. "Please, Daddy." He was in too much pain to be shamed, but as he called his father something he had not said since he was five, a tiny part of him that had been his pride shriveled up in his chest.

"You do not know how difficult it is for me to see you suffer, Draco," his father said gently. "It was necessary. Do you see that now?"

"Yes, D -- Father," Draco whispered, fresh tears rolling down his cheeks, and his father pulled him up into a hug. Draco forgot the pain, forgot the humiliation, forgot why he had been holding out in the first place when he felt the first touch of his father's hands on his back, in an embrace that he had yearned for since he was a little boy. "I'll be good. I'm sorry, Father." He desperately wanted to plead with his father not to hurt him anymore, but the tattered shreds of his pride would not let him. He felt the tears rolling down his cheeks and wondered if he would have any left by the time his father was finished.

Lucius grasped him by the shoulders and pulled him out of the embrace, until they were kneeling on the floor and staring eye to eye. "What are you going to do when you get back to school?" his father asked sternly, and the threat of pain was in his eyes.

"I'm going to -- put that p-poison in Harry's drink." It was the hardest thing he had ever said, and it made it worse somehow that he almost couldn't think to disobey. He wanted to poison Harry because his father wanted him to, and disobedience was beyond his ability at that moment. His father raised an eyebrow, and Draco realized he had called Harry by his first name. "Potter, Father, I'm sorry."

His father said nothing for a moment, and Draco's insides writhed as he waited for condemnation.

"It seems as if I will not have to punish you further today," Lucius said at last, a warm glow in his eyes that was, if Draco had rationally thought about it, obviously false. "Go to your room. I will have the men who participated in your punishment today killed. I will be along shortly to heal your threatening wounds, but the whip-marks will be left as a reminder to you."

Draco did not ask why. He pulled himself to his feet and grasped the cloak that his father held out towards him, tugged it silently around himself and refusing to gasp when it touched his tortured skin. Blood oozed down his chest from the deep punctures in his chin and sternum. He tottered off to his room, staring straight ahead at nothing.

* * *

A/N: ...man, that was nasty. If you don't know what a ripper is, I suppose you should be glad. It's not a nice toy.

Anyway, see? I actually wrote a fic with no slash! However, I haven't been able to write a story with no nasty stuff in it that is also no slash, but I'm sure I'll be able to someday.

The next half should be out soon -- within the next few weeks.

Hope this is as good as my slash fics. Poor Draco.


	2. Chapter Two

Mitzvahs 

Chapter Two

by Capella

A/N: A small note to Louisa: Ummm -- I'm not sure why you were cussing me out in your review; did you have a problem with the story, or am I just a son of a bitch on general principle?

And by the way, stalking is illegal in all fifty states.

What the hell is a mord sith? Is he your personal trainer or something?

* * *

"At the heart of all beauty lies something inhuman, and these hills, the softness of the sky, the outline of these trees at this very minute lose the illusory meaning with which we had clothed them, henceforth more remote than a lost paradise...that denseness and that strangeness of the world is absurd."

Albert Camus

* * *

"Hey, Malfoy!"

Harry's voice hit him as soon as he got off the train like a punch to the gut; he had been hoping to avoid Harry in the scramble to get to the castle, but it seemed as though Harry had found him first. Better still, Weasley was standing next to him, glowering and holding the hand of his Mudblood girlfriend. Draco forced a smirk onto his face.

"Potter," he said, and Harry grinned up at him. Well, not up, precisely; Draco had always been the taller of the two, but ever since the end of sixth year Harry had hit a tremendous growth spurt, and they now almost stood eye to eye.

"Back from your father's, I see," Harry said, still smiling, "alive and intact, no permanent damage, too."

The whip-marks on his back burned with every touch of fabric to his skin. He barely kept his hand from rising to his sternum to feel the smooth skin where, only a day before, there had been two deep, bleeding puncture wounds. He had burned the clothing he'd worn that night, and when his mother asked why he hadn't work his nice green shirt lately, he'd mumbled an answer and gone to his room. His mother looked at him differently since that night; he had no doubt that Lucius had twisted what had happened when he'd told her why she heard her son screaming from the dungeon.

"It went fine," Draco lied. "We barely even saw each other. Just at dinner."

Weasley sneered at him. "Too busy at his Death-eater meetings, I bet. Why weren't you there?"

Draco barely spared a glare in Weasley's direction, but the words dug at him regardless. Harry rolled his eyes and shrugged good-naturedly.

"How was castle life with Lupin and Ma --"

Harry's eyes widened and he made a subtle cutting-off motion with his hand near his waist. Draco suppressed a smile; he evidently hadn't told Ron about Mandy. He changed his word into a cough. Ron gave him a suspicious look but didn't say anything.

"It was fine," Harry said vaguely. He gave Draco another tentative smile, and the potion in Draco's pocket felt somehow heavier. "We should probably get going. The feast's going to start soon. Besides, I'm getting sort of hungry."

Draco managed to force a laugh, turning his head slightly to avoid the sun's glare. Suddenly, he saw Harry's eyes widen as Harry's gaze fell on his cheek.

"Jesus, Draco," he breathed, his hand raising to touch his cheek and the ragged, raw cut slicing from right below his left ear to his nose. His fingers brushed Draco's skin gently and Draco flinched away. "What happened? Did -- did your father --"

"No," Draco said sharply. "I fell down the stairs." He left it at that; Harry looked at him for a few moments without blinking, and Draco felt the confession well up in his throat: the cut, the torture, the poison in his pocket. But Harry smiled slightly.

"Figures," he said with a half-hearted laugh. "You're always so clumsy." A lie; Harry was the one forever bumping into things and knocking stuff over, and Draco had never tripped since he learned to walk. Draco knew that Harry knew that. "Let's get going."

Harry and his friends quickly outpaced Draco; they talked excitedly as they walked about the coming school year, graduation, Snape's all around unpleasantness and a number of other subjects that Draco might have almost been interested in before break. He walked slower, his steps lagging, ignoring the looks Harry threw over his shoulder at him. His father's words echoed in his head.

'The poison, when put into a drink -- for the sake of example, pumpkin juice -- is odorless and tasteless. Put the entire thing in Harry Potter's goblet at supper, and destroy the vial.'

Draco wondered how his father knew what Harry always drank at supper.

'I will be very displeased if you should fail, and Harry will be more so. If you do not kill him, I will have him brought to my mansion, tortured, beaten, raped, and executed. You will experience the same, save the murder, as it would be singularly unpleasant to be forced to kill my only heir. I would prefer not to dirty my hands, however.'

Draco shuddered. He could only imagine what sorts of tortures his father could inflict when he got serious. He was beginning to think that what Lucius had done to him had been mere play.

'I understand that the vial could break, or something else unfortunate could happen. Thus, I am giving you this dagger. The same poison that I would like for you to put into Harry Potter's drink is sprinkled on the dagger. I would recommend not touching the dagger. If you somehow do not poison the boy's drink, put the blade in his heart.'

Suddenly someone bumped into his back and Draco stumbled a step forward, barely catching himself in time to save his dignity. A beefy hand landed on his shoulder, and he looked up and up into Goyle's face. Crabbe, as usual, was by his side. For some reason their expressions were melancholy.

"Sorry, Draco," Goyle mumbled. "Didn't mean to. I'm a bit off lately."

There was absolutely nothing that Draco could care less about, but he had to ask, to keep up appearances. "Why?" His voice sounded tired, even to himself.

To his surprise, it almost looked like Goyle was about to cry. It was obvious that he'd forgotten about his hand resting on Draco's shoulder. "My dad was killed," he said, and Crabbe nodded. Draco raised his eyebrows.

"Yours too, Crabbe?"

"Yeah," he said in his typical stumbling tone. "Your father owled us and told us. He didn't say how. I guess it was some Auror or something."

Suddenly Draco's stomach felt like it was frozen, and he had to steel himself to keep from shrugging Goyle's hand off. God. Now he knew the identity of the two men in the dungeon that night.

_Chin up, now._

He shivered and hurried on, and Crabbe and Goyle did not stop him, too caught up in their own bumbling grief to bother with him.

Thinking of those two men brought up memories that Draco did not want to relive. He wondered if his father knew what a thorough job he'd done in breaking his spirit; he was jumpy, and it was starting to get difficult to keep up the cold, spoiled facade that, until break, hadn't been a facade at all. Even thinking about disobeying his father made him want to vomit.

Harry's laughter filtered down through the crowd to Draco. He snuck a hand into his pocket and gripped the vial.

The entire evening went by in a blur. He missed the sorting ceremony; he stared into his goblet during the school song, not like he'd ever sang along with it, anyway. He could feel Blaise, sitting by his side, giving him a few curious looks, but nothing further than that. He was grateful.

The food appeared so suddenly that he near jumped a foot into the air, and he knocked his pumpkin juice into his lap. He sat there, staring at the dark stain slowly spreading on his cloak, and made no move to clean it up. He had been considering putting the potion into his own drink, up til then.

"Clumsy, Malfoy?" Blaise asked, grinning, and magicked the juice away when it was clear that Draco wouldn't.

"Yeah," he said, and smirked a little, and Blaise turned back to his meal, obviously confident in the fact that Malfoy was starting to act a bit more like usual.

Harry gave him the tiniest wave from the Gryffindor table when he caught Draco staring at him for the fifth time. He made a "come here" motion and Draco's breath caught in his throat, suddenly faced with the prospect of completing what his father wanted him to do.

Panicking, he shook his head no, and Harry shrugged and turned to Ron, already laughing again. Draco's hands were shaking, and his fork clattered against his plate. Blaise glanced over at him out of the corner of his eye.

"You all right, Malfoy?" he said, with what might have been a touch of actual concern in his voice. Draco nodded without taking his eyes off Harry.

"Fine," he murmured, and dropped his fork onto his plate. He lurched up and off the bench, almost running out of the room, unconscious of the few curious stares following him. He could go as he pleased, since he'd been made a prefect the year before.

Poison was so impersonal. He needed for Harry to know that it was him. He wanted to be there next to Harry as he died, to explain why he had done it.

When he got to his room, he poured the potion down the toilet. It fizzled angrily in the water.

He imagined the blade doing the same thing as it touched Harry's skin. It was a tiny consolation that his stomach didn't hurt so much anymore when he thought of Harry dead.

Then Hedwig tapped on his window with a message sprawled across the paper in Harry's characteristic messy handwriting.

_Come to my room once everyone's asleep. You seem off. Are you okay?_

Draco slipped the dagger in his pocket and waited. There were advantages to Harry being Head Boy and getting his own room. He wouldn't have to kill any witnesses.

_Father -- what if I get caught?_

_I will protect you. You are my son._

"Potter?"

Harry glanced over at the door and smiled. Draco hovered in the doorway, one hand on the frame and the other one in the pocket of his robe. He looked strangely tentative, a look that Harry had never seen him wear in his life.

"Come in already, Malfoy." Harry cleared off the clothes he'd been unpacking off his bed and scooted over, giving Draco room to sit. Draco took a step into the room and hestitated before walking over to the bed, grabbing the bedpost in one white-knuckled hand as if he needed support to stand.

"I'll just stand," he said shortly. There was a long moment of silence in which Draco stared at the bedsheets as if they were the most interesting things he'd ever seen, and Harry studied Draco more closely than he'd ever thought to do.

There were dark circles underneath Draco's eyes. Harry noticed that right away. Draco was always impeccably neat and good-looking, never a hair out of place or a blemish on his skin; somehow, he never even looked tired. Now his eyes were downcast, his shoulders slumped.

Draco's eyes lifted from his study and caught Harry staring. The gray of his irises were dull.

"What?" he snapped.

"Draco," Harry started carefully, "I know we've never really been the best of friends. Or friends at all. But this past year -- things started getting better, and I want you to know you really can trust me. If you want to."

Draco stared at him for a long, long while before replying. His reply was not one that Harry would have expected.

In a flash, the hand that Draco had been keeping in his pocket was out, and Harry barely caught a glimpse of steel before Draco was on him, grabbing him by the neck and forcing him to the bed on his back. Harry lay there, stunned, Draco's hand clutching at his windpipe so hard that he could barely breathe. There was a knife in Draco's other hand, pointed at his heart. Draco's lips were drawn back over his teeth in a surprisingly feral snarl.

"Draco," Harry managed to get out, and Draco growled, his grip growing tighter until Harry had to fight for every breath.

"I have to do this," Draco said fiercely, his eyes brighter now. "This dagger is poisoned. If I stab you in the heart, you'll die instantly. Even if I nick your arm, you need the antidote quickly. You'll be dead before anyone can get to you, and my father --" His teeth clicked shut with an audible noise, and a faint tremor started in his hand and traveled up his arms. His grip on Harry's throat loosened somewhat, enough so Harry could breathe and talk.

"Your father?"

Draco flinched and turned his head away, and the flickering candlelight fell on the twisting, ugly cut on his cheek.

"Your father did that, didn't he?"

Draco snapped his head back and glared down at Harry. "I deserved it," he snarled. "A father has the right to discipline his son." He sounded convicted, but the trembling in his limbs did not subside. The knife edged closer to Harry's heart. "I have to be a good boy," he whispered.

"Draco, listen to me." Harry drew a shallow breath. "What did he do to you?"

"Nothing!" Draco cried, and Harry almost jumped and impaled himself on the knife.. "God!" His outburst subsided into a panting silence. His chest was heaving with every racing breath, and sweat was dripping down his face. His eyes were wild and desperate.

"Okay," Harry said, thinking quickly. "What will happen if you don't -- kill me?"

"I can't -- I can't tell you. I just have to."

"Draco," Harry said slowly, "there is something on your neck."

Draco looked at him suspiciously, but he removed his hand from Harry's throat all the same, keeping the knife carefully at Harry's heart, and lifted his hand to his neck. Something that was almost shame crept onto his face when he felt the welt revealed by his collar, which had slipped down on one shoulder.

"Is that a whip --"

"Shut up!" Draco cried, and quicker than thought his fingers were digging into Harry's throat again. "So what if it is? It doesn't matter. You'll still be dead."

"You don't have to tell me," Harry said, and he felt Draco's fingers loosen imperceptibly. "Just -- get off me and we'll think of something. I promise. I won't let your father hurt you."

"No," Draco growled. "You think I can't go through with it? You think I won't kill you, just because we talked a few times?"

Harry had to make an effort to moderate his voice, to keep the obvious anger and fear out of his tone. "You don't want to be like your father, Draco," he said quietly.

Draco's arms were shaking so badly that Harry did not know how he kept his grip on the knife. Slowly, as if it pained him, he pried his hand off Harry's throat and sat back on the bed. There was shock in his eyes.

"You're going to die anyway, you know," Draco said, his voice higher and panicked and slightly mad. "You're going to pray that the Dark Lord comes and rescues you once my father gets you. I know. He told me. He's going to make you live for a long time before you die."

Harry's stomach twisted in delayed fear. When his life had been in immediate danger, he had managed to put the fact that Lucius Malfoy wanted him dead to the back of his mind. Now the thought shouldered its way into his consciousness and made a cold sweat break out on his skin.

"But --" He had to stop and clear his throat before he could continue. "But why hasn't he got me already, then?" Another thought occured to him. "Is Lucius acting alone? Does Voldemort know about this?"

Draco shuddered slightly, and Harry did not know if it was in fear of Voldemort's name or his father's. Draco had never been afraid of Voldemort's name before; at least, he had never shown it around Harry. "I don't know," he whispered. "Maybe he just doesn't want to get in trouble himself, if he gets caught. Maybe the Dark Lord doesn't want to risk any of his followers. Maybe I've the best chance, since I'm here with you and father knows -- he knows I've been talking to you. Why does it matter?"

It was strange. Ever since he had known that Voldemort wanted him dead, Harry had imagined every single type of attack and torture he could think of; it was almost a morbid little desensitizing hobby that he played with in his mind. But he had never considered this kind of an attack. How many other of his friends could be turned in this way?

"Please let me do this," Draco whispered, his face white. Harry felt himself growing angry.

"Why? To save your own skin?"

"No!" Draco cried angrily in turn, but then he looked away when Harry continued to gaze at him steadily, ashamed. Draco turned his head and looked at the ground. "Maybe." Harry waited for him to say more, but he stayed silent.

Harry tried to calm down, tried to think of what sort of things Draco's father had to have put Draco through to force him to do this.

"Look," he said. "I've got an idea. Maybe we can both get out of this alive."

Draco peered up at him through his lashes, a doubtful look in his eye. "Yeah?" he asked, sounding a bit like his old self. "How?"

"You --" Harry took a deep breath. "Just stab me in the shoulder. Go find someone and tell them that I've been attacked. You can tell your father that I fought you and you couldn't get in a good hit. Okay?"

"Jesus," Draco muttered. "I cannot believe you just said that."

Harry felt his stomach twist a little more in what was almost mind-numbing fear. "Me neither." Suddenly Draco grinned, and Harry narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "What?"

"Can you do me a favor?"

Harry nodded, still cautious.

"Punch me," he said, and turned his head to the side, baring his neck and cheek. "Make it look realistic. My father's a perfectionist." Draco's smile looked a little more forced. Harry smiled back.

"I'll make it good. Don't worry." He reared back his fist.

Adrenaline and a great deal of anger and fear powered his blow, and Draco fell off the bed and onto the floor with a dull thud. Harry winced when he heard a crack.

"Jesus, Potter," Draco said once he got his breath back. "You broke my wrist."

"I did not," Harry said, indignant. "I punched you in the nose. See, it's bleeding."

Draco gave him a crooked grin, made somewhat sinister by the blood pouring down his face from his nose. "I know. My hand got caught under me when I fell. At least you made it realistic." He climbed back on the bed, his face somber. Harry felt his own smile fade.

He squeezed his eyes shut. "Just do it."

"What?" Draco sounded incredulous. "Here? Now?"

"When the hell else?" Harry snapped, his nerves on edge. "Do it before I lose my nerve." The blood was thundering through his veins, the fear-rush of adrenaline making his fingers twitch.

Harry felt Draco's arms encircle him gently, tentatively. Draco's hair pressed against Harry's cheek as he hugged Harry tight to his chest. "Thanks, Potter."

Then Draco drew back, and before Harry could steel himself there was a blinding hot pain in his shoulder, and Harry let out a hurt cry before he could stop himself. The fire sped along his veins, and he fell off the bed to the floor, sobbing in agony, writhing and arching his back in a futile attempt to force the pain out of his system. He opened his eyes, his vision blurred through tears, to see Draco staring down at him in horror.

"Go -- get someone," Harry panted. It seemed to snap Draco out of his stupor, and he raced out of the room, not bothering to shut the door. Harry clutched at his chest, the epicenter of the pain, as his vision darkened into an horrible, engulfing black; and as he faded, he heard faintly footsteps thundering to his side, and wondered if maybe it was too late.

Draco would wonder later at the strange twist of fate that sent him crashing into Mandy Brocklehurst outside of Harry's room as he fled out of the portrait hole and down the stairs. She flew back and rolled a few feet down the stairs, and Draco barely kept from falling, only stumbling back a few feet.

Mandy finally stopped rolling at the bottom of the stairs. She flew to her feet, her long black hair in a mess around her face, glaring up at Draco with anger and then cautiousness.

"Why are you crying?" she asked, with a typical sort of detached Ravenclaw curiosity.

"What?" he replied stupidly, and reached one shaking hand up to his face. It was wet with what he could only assume was a mix of sweat and tears. "I --"

"And what's on your -- oh my God, Draco, you have blood on your arm." Even saying that she was calm, but there was panic in her eyes.

Draco looked down at his arm. There was a few drops of blood splattered on his white shirt, something only a very observant pair of eyes could notice. He stared down at his sleeve in horror.

"Go get Snape," he whispered, and she frowned and mounted a few steps in an attempt to hear him.

"What?"

"Now!" he yelled, in the loudest voice he'd ever used around anyone but Harry. "Go get Snape and bring him to Potter's room. Just do it, damn it!"

Mandy's eyes went almost comically wide, and she turned and flew down the stairs to the dungeon, her tangled black hair flowing behind her as she ran. Draco waited until she had been gone a few moments before straightening his hair and wiping off his face on his sleeve. He walked calmly down the stairs to the dungeon, but his heart fluttered nervously in his chest. He could not imagine which would be worse -- if Harry died or if Harry lived.

But his father had promised to protect him.

Caught up in his thoughts, he did not notice the second-year Gryffindor watching the entire thing with wide eyes and an open mouth. The child waited until Draco was safely gone, then scurried off to Dumbledore's office nervously, not knowing what he would do when he arrived. It was only by pure chance that he saw Dumbledore walking the halls on his way there.

There was a knock on the door, early the next morning. Draco would have been furious if he hadn't stayed up all night anyway, staring at the ceiling and seeing Harry die a hundred times in his head, seeing his father and that room and that night a thousand.

Blaise mumbled something incoherent into his pillow.

"Don't strain yourself," Draco muttered, easing himself off the bed. The whip weals hurt a little less now. He'd put a salve on the one that almost extended above his neck.

Suddenly, the door burst open.

Dumbledore walked into the room, flanked by three wizards and two witches. They had their wands out. Pointed at Draco.

"Headmaster?" Draco asked, and was proud that his voice was steady. "What's going on?"

Dumbledore's eyes were somber. "Harry Potter is in the infirmary," he said in that hoarse, gentle voice of his, only this time there was a layer of steel beneath it. "He almost died last night. Do --"

"He's not dead?" Draco knew from the moment he asked it was a mistake. The Aurors' eyes narrowed as a whole, but Draco could not help but ask. His stomach twisted into knots in fear, fear of what his father would do when he found out. But he had tried. His father would protect him like he promised to. He had tried. Harry was not dead.

"Do you know anything about this?" Dumbledore continued as if Draco had not spoken.

Draco's eyes darted to the Aurors and back to Dumbledore. "I -- no, I don't know anything. I don't."

Blaise mumbled something again. Draco almost could not hear him over the pounding of his own heart.

"I am afraid you need to come with me, Draco."

"Go -- with you?" Draco's voice shook. "Where?"

There was a long pause before one of the Aurors spoke, and Draco's breath froze in his lungs.

"To your trial."

"No," Draco whispered, and took a step back, but it was too late; the Aurors rushed into the room and surrounded him. He was in too much of a daze to fight them off; only wincing when they tied the rope around his hands. He supposed it was enchanted.

"He told," Draco breathed, his lips numb. One of the Aurors binding his hands looked at him suspiciously, but he ignored it. He had been betrayed.


	3. Chapter Three

Mitzvahs  
  
Chapter Three  
  
by Capella  
  
A/N: Sorry this is so late. You know the drill -- end of school.  
  
Anyway, this is getting interesting. All the Wizengamot stuff I found at the HP Lexicon, bless their hearts.   
  
Enjoy and review!

* * *

"Hell is when there is no reason to live and no courage to die."  
  
-- William Markiewicz

* * *

His trial was held in Courtroom Ten. He was informed by one of the Aurors accompanying him that it was where Harry Potter's trial had been held. It was a kind of poetic justice, the witch had said with a laugh, the leathery skin around the corners of her eyes crinkling, but Draco didn't see the humor.  
  
He twisted his hands, uncomfortably aware of the chains binding him to the chair that sat in the middle of the room, but besides that, he made no movement. He stared straight ahead, ignoring equally the flickers of torchlight on the dark stone walls and the fifty wizards in plum robes sitting in the judge's balcony surrounding him.  
  
"Draco Malfoy," the Chief Warlock intoned grimly. Draco continued staring dully ahead, and there was a long pause, in which he assumed he was supposed to make some sort of response. "You stand accused for the attempted murder of Harry James Potter. How do you plead?"  
  
_Jesus._ What sort of question was that? He wanted to explain, he wanted to say why he'd done it, but it was as if the only words his mouth could pronounce were "guilty" and "not guilty," and he could not make himself say anything else. So he didn't.  
  
"Not guilty," he said softly, and the room was suddenly full of little whispered conversations, hissing like wildfire.  
  
"Silence!" The Chief Warlock's voice cut through the whispers like butter, and they ceased immediately. He opened his mouth to speak again, but Draco dredged up the last bits of his pride and spoke.  
  
"Excuse me," he said, and the Chief Warlock looked down sharply at him with cold blue eyes. "But don't I get a representative?"  
  
Directly to the Chief's right, Cornelius Fudge gave a short bark of laughter. "You think you deserve one, boy? Do you think you deserve any rights in a trial to see if you tried to murder the person who will save the wizarding world? We should throw you in Azkaban now and --"  
  
"Cornelius!" the woman to the Chief's right said angrily. "You will control yourself while in this courtroom, or you will be thrown out, Minister of Magic or not."  
  
"Miss Bones, I hardly think --"  
  
"Silence!" The Chief Warlock's voice was louder now, with a note of annoyance in it, and Fudge contented himself with throwing glares in Draco's direction that Draco largely ignored. Harry had told him that Fudge had sat in on his trial too, and had acting in mostly the same manner. Draco knew just how far Fudge's writ ran, and the man did not scare him.  
  
The Chief Warlock peered down at Draco, his brows furrowed in irritation. "Is there anyone you wish to represent you, Mr. Malfoy?" he asked, not unkindly, and his question pulled Draco up short.  
  
No, there was not. No one believed him now, not Dumbledore or even Snape, and the only person who trusted him was most likely almost dead. His father --   
  
"No." He was proud that his voice did not shake.   
  
"Good." The Chief Warlock looked around at the faces glaring down at Draco. "Do you wish to call any witnesses?"  
  
"Could --" He had to stop and clear his throat. "Could I call Harry Potter?"  
  
There were the little hissing conversations again.  
  
"I'm afraid not, Mr. Malfoy. He is too ill, and moving him might kill him. Is there no one else?"  
  
"There wasn't anyone else there," he said, a little desperately, in way of an explanation, and the Chief Warlock nodded.  
  
"Does anyone wish to ask Mr. Malfoy a question?"  
  
"Yes!" Fudge jumped in eagerly, his eyes glinting with malice in the flickering torchlight. "Is it true that in 1996, you delivered a death threat to Harry Potter, directly after your father's arrest?"  
  
Draco's eyes widened. He had forgotten about that. Shit. A drop of cold sweat rolled down his face.  
  
"Well, yes -- but I wasn't going to actually do anything, I was just angry --"  
  
Fudge smiled grimly. "Were you angry when you stabbed him last night?"

"I -- I don't --"  
  
"Mr. Fudge, that will do," the Chief Warlock said sharply, and Fudge subsided, still glaring down at Draco, and Draco was abruptly reminded of the many times his father had blackmailed Fudge into doing things for him, and wondered if maybe Fudge wanted some revenge.   
  
They went on in that fashion for what seemed like hours, bringing up tiny little quarrels and things said that even Draco had forgotten. It was when they brought up his fight with Harry at the beginning of sixth year, when his father had been let out of prison, that Draco finally understood that he was going to Azkaban. Even though he was innocent he knew -- he could tell by their faces -- what the verdict would be. It felt as though an icy hand had grabbed his stomach and twisted it.  
  
"My father," Draco whispered hoarsely when they paused for a moment. Chains jangled on either side of him -- a hopeless iron sound, heavy and echoing -- as Draco twisted his wrists in the cuffs. "Please. Can he come --"  
  
The Chief Warlock looked surprised. "I thought you had been informed," he said, and cast an annoyed glance at the Aurors who had escorted him. His voice softened the tiniest bit when he spoke again to Draco. "Your father asked to sit on your jury, and we aquiesed." He jerked his head slightly to the right.  
  
Draco looked, and saw a shock of blonde hair that he was surprised he had not noticed before. He wondered how many of the Wizengamot his father had blackmailed this time.  
  
"Father," he said, fighting to keep calm. His father stared down at him icily, his blue eyes glinting like steel. "Did you tell them --"  
  
"Tell them what, Draco?" His father's voice was soft and dangerous, but in his desperation Draco did not notice.  
  
"What you told me to do -- you know it was not my fault --" He looked up at his father, bewildered when he did not answer, only continuing to gaze down at Draco with that blank expression. "You said you would protect me," he said dully.  
  
Lucius raised one eyebrow. "If you wish to speak nonsense, Draco, do not waste the Wizengamot's time. I hope you are not suggesting with your -- ramblings -- that I protect you from your righteous punishment. I will not shelter you from justice."  
  
"Father," Draco gasped desperately. "Please!"  
  
"I suggest you being talking sense, Draco," his father said coldly. "And I also suggest you produce some reason for your actions."  
  
You told me to do it!  
  
God, how badly he wanted to say it. But the expression on his father's face kept him from it, and the hope that his father would somehow save him made him press his lips together in a tight line to keep the words from escaping.  
  
"If no one has any other questions for Mr. Malfoy?" the Chief Warlock asked, and the other Interrogators shook their heads almost as a whole. The Warlock sighed. "Bring out the first witness."  
  
_Witness?_  
  
His heart stopped when he saw Mandy Brocklehurst walk in. She gave him a cold look before planting herself to his left.  
  
"Miss Brocklehurst, please introduce yourself and give your relationship to Mr. Potter."  
  
"Mandy Brocklehurst, seventh year Ravenclaw, parents Tim and Cathy Brocklehurst. I'm Harry's girlfriend." Draco almost rolled his eyes at her clipped introduction.  
  
"Please explain what you saw the night in question."  
  
"I was on my way up to Gryffindor Tower to visit Harry. I was going up the stairs to the portrait hole when Draco came out of the hole and knocked me down the stairs. He was crying and he had blood on his robes." She gave Draco a brief, pointed look. "He told me to fetch Professor Snape and bring him to Harry's room. I went and got the Professor, and when I got back, he was gone. The Professor made me go back to his room for some potions. I think while I was gone, Harry told him who did it, but no one told me anything. That is pure idle speculation on my part." Draco bared his teeth at her when she gave him another cold glare.   
  
"Anything else, Miss Brocklehurst?"   
  
"Yes. I found this --" she held up a plastic bag delicately "-- in Harry's room, lying on the floor next to Harry with blood on it. It was steaming. I'm positive that it was how Harry was almost murdered."

_Oh, shit_, Draco thought, staring at the bag containing the knife as one would a hissing snake.  
  
"Please bring it forward."  
  
Mandy gave the knife to one of the Aurors, who walked up and placed it before the Chief Warlock. He lifted it up close to his face and inspected it. When he placed it down and looked at Draco, Draco felt a faint trembling start in his hands. There was condemnation in those blue eyes. The Chief Warlock passed the knife to the woman, Bones, and said, "Mr. Lucius Malfoy, please confirm that the crest on this knife is, indeed, your family crest."  
  
"What?" Draco said, his breath exploding out of him like he had been punched in the stomach. Lucius recieved the knife and barely glanced at it before speaking.  
  
"Yes," he said slowly, looking down at Draco. Draco felt a few betraying tears trickle down his face. "This is our family crest."  
  
Why had he not noticed? His father had given him that knife. His mind shied away from what that implied.  
  
"Please, Father!" he said, desperate. "Please!"  
  
His father did not even look at him.  
  
He was numb to the rest of the trial. He was faintly aware of Dumbledore, Blaise, Pansy, Ron, Hermione, a small second-year -- all testifying against him. Blaise was the worst, refusing to meet Draco's eyes. Draco considered pleading to his innocence, telling the jury what his father had told him to do, but he knew it wouldn't work. They already had their minds made up, and his father probably blackmailed them all anyway. Sweat dripped into his eyes and he blinked it away. He could feel it running down his neck, making his hair stick to his skin.   
  
"Mr. Malfoy!"  
  
He glanced up at the Chief Warlock, startled, and found the Warlock looking down in annoyance. He realized that he had been trying to get Draco's attention for a while.  
  
"You have been found unanimously guilty."  
  
"No!" he tried to scream, but his voice cracked and it came out as a barely audible whisper.  
  
"You will be expelled from Hogwarts and your wand will be broken. You will spend next twenty consecutive years in Azkaban prison."  
  
His mind was full of a strangely white, fuzzy noise that felt suspiciously like fear.  
  
"Can I see Harry?" he asked hoarsely, and was ignored. He wanted to know why Harry had betrayed him. Did Harry hate him so much?   
  
The head of the Wizengamot continued as if Draco had not spoken. "You will not be allowed contact with any witch or wizard," he said. "Permission to visit will be granted only by the Wizengamot, which will be allowed no more than twice a year. Draco Malfoy, your sentence begins now. Take him away." The chains on Draco's arms disappeared, and Draco shot up from his seat.  
  
"Let me see him!" Draco screamed, jerking his arm away from the Auror who grabbed it. "I want to see him!" He punched the witch in the nose and managed to land a kick on another Auror's shin, fighting like a wild thing, only falling after an Auror became exasperated and cast a Stupefy. Draco crumpled to the ground, stunned, and one of the Aurors took the opportunity to chain his hands and drag him to his feet. His face burned hot with shame and anger, and tears streamed down his temples and onto the floor, but he could not move his arms; they would not obey him. Someone behind him pushed between his shoulderblades to get him walking. His feet felt filled with lead.  
  
Azkaban. Harry. "Father," he whispered, and one of the Aurors by his side, the one he had clocked in the face, looked at him with a detached sort of anger.  
  
"Quiet," the witch hissed, blood still dribbling from her nose. "You should be dead. You will wish you were after a year in Azkaban. I have no doubt that everyone in the wizarding world will fight for those two visits a year, just to torment you." The Auror's eyes shone with fierce anger. "It will be no more than you deserve."  
  
Draco stared up at the Auror's face, memorizing the curves, the dark gray color of her eyes, the length of her hair. He looked around at all the Aurors leading him away -- a man in his fifties, longish black hair; a tall young woman with bright green eyes and short blonde hair; a short, dumpy man perhaps in his thirties; and a tiny Oriental woman. He managed to move his head enough to glance back at the judges sitting solemn in their chairs, memorizing their faces so he would know them when he tracked them all down someday.  
  
But there was one face he knew he didn't have to see ever again to remember. Bright, blazing green eyes. He would remember those even if he was in jail fifty years. He would save Harry until last.  
  
I'll remember you, he mouthed with a tiny grim smile. I'll remember all of you.  
  
The witch frowned up at him. "What?" He stared down at her until she looked away, uncomfortable.  
  
Draco let his smirk fade once she looked away.   
  
He was blindfolded a few moments later, once they reached the Apparating room at the Ministry. An Auror was at each side of him, holding onto his biceps with steel grips as a portkey was forced into his hands. Draco felt the strange, sickening tug in his stomach and, a few seconds later, there was the sound of the sea in his ears. He dropped the portkey and heard a loud metal clang. The blindfold was removed.  
  
"Don't do this," he said to no one in particular. "I didn't do anything." The Auror behind him jabbed Draco in the ribs with his wand.  
  
"Move."  
  
Draco walked forward with heavy feet towards the forbidding gates. He was abruptly reminded of a picture he had seen in one of Granger's Muggle Studies books, lying on a desk in the Gryffindor common room. The gate in the picture bore a striking resemblence to the one he faced now -- except instead of the words "Arbeit macht frei," this one said "Azkaban Prison."

* * *

A/N: Sorry about how it fizzled out there at the end. I've been crazily busy this month -- last newspaper issue, seniors leaving, end of school, etc. It's not long, and it's not particularly good, but I wanted to get it out now.  
  
I'm making up lots of the descriptions of Azkaban. I don't think it's described in the books and if it is, I'm too lazy to look it up. I also don't know exactly how the Wizengamot sentences. This entire chapter comes from watching too much Law and Order. Speaking of which, isn't it annoying that lawyers can say whatever they want and then just say "withdrawn" after it, even though the jury can't take back hearing it?  
  
Oh, and the Arbeit macht frei thing is from the gate above Auschwitz. 

If there's any discrepancies, just sort of -- ignore them. Or, if they really bother you, email me and I'll fix them if they're there.


	4. Chapter Four

Mitzvahs  
  
Chapter Four  
  
by Capella  
  
A/N: Hooray! At least this came a little quicker than the last chapter.  
  
However, for the entire summer I will be out of town at various nerd camps, so I doubt that I'll get any writing done. Don't expect an update from me until August -- however, I might be able to get some notebook writing done during June, so you might want to check back the second week of July, where I have a temporary break between nerd camps. I might be able to get the next chapter done then.  
  
WHOOO! Three quotes!  
  
Thanks again to the HP Lexicon who, though they are probably unaware, have helped immensely in writing this story. However, since in the Harry Potter books Azkaban has never been thoroughly explored, I had to make up some of this -- I thought I remembered Sirius saying that he got the newspaper. Some of it was obvious -- I wondered if there would be wizard guards there as well, but that would be odd since remaining around the dementors is a job that no one would take.  
  
I'm assuming that Dementors can talk. Fudge says that the guards told him Sirius kept saying "he's at Hogwarts" in his sleep. The guards = dementors, so you can see where I'm going with that.   
  
So, here it is. Of course it's not happy, since dementors tend to suck happy memories out of stuff.

* * *

"You say that I have no power? Perhaps you speak truly, but you say that Dreams have no power here? Tell me -- what power would Hell have if those here imprisoned were not able to dream of Heaven?"  
  
-- Morpheus

* * *

"They don't need walls and water to keep the prisoners in, not when they're trapped inside their own heads, incapable of a single cheerful thought. Most go mad within weeks."  
  
-- Remus Lupin

* * *

"Most go mad in there, and plenty stop eating in the end. They lose the will to live. You could always tell when a death was coming, because the dementors could sense it, they got excited."  
  
-- Sirius Black

* * *

Draco felt the cold as soon as he took his first step inside of Azkaban Fortress.  
  
The cold rushed through him like a cutting wind and sliced his facade of bravery in half, and he fell to his hands and knees and vomited on the floor, shivering so badly that he almost pulled a muscle. He gasped for breath for a moment before his stomach tried to turn itself inside out again. Dark pressed in on his mind and he knew, he could tell that it was the dementors that he felt. Now, shaking on the floor next to a pool of his own vomit, he felt vaguely ashamed for making such fun of Harry's fear of dementors. He supposed he hadn't been affected by them in third year because he hadn't had any horrible memories. He'd have to thank his father for changing that.  
  
Someone landed a sharp kick in his side and he grunted, looking up into the disgusted face of one of the Aurors, the short Oriental woman.  
  
"Get up," she said. Draco looked up at her, his legs refusing to obey him, and her face softened a bit. She grabbed hold of one of his arms and hauled him to his feet; she was surprisingly strong.   
  
"You'll get used to that feeling," she said, and there was no trace of the pity in her voice that he had seen on her face a moment earlier. "You'll be feeling that a lot for the next twenty years."  
  
Twenty years.  
  
He'd be thirty-eight when he got out of Azkaban. Most of his classmates would have jobs and families by then. All the things he had ever worked for -- the magic he'd been taught, the extra advanced Potions lessons Snape had been giving him, his father's weath that would support him until he was dead, his ambitions -- all of it was for nothing.   
  
He wondered about the cruelty of the Wizengamot. Surely it would have been kinder to give him a life sentence -- what good would come of being released? He would never hold a job again, unless he became a Death Eater and did what his father did -- bribed and threatened and blackmailed his way up to importance.  
  
It was a little frightening that he was starting to consider it.  
  
He stumbled on a stone and barely kept himself from tripping. The Oriental woman rolled her eyes and tugged on his arm.  
  
"Hurry up," she hissed, and Draco reflected that she was probably about as happy to be here as he.   
  
"Yeah, well, fuck you too," he muttered, and she shot him an incredulous look. "I'm not in any hurry to be there." He actually had no idea where 'there' was. Maybe his cell. He didn't really know how jail worked. He tamped down his pride and asked.  
  
She smirked. "We're just the delivery boys," she said, gesturing with her free hand to the other Aurors accompanying Draco, and said no more, although Draco had a good enough imagination, and the growing, paralyzing cold would have been a large enough hint even if he didn't.  
  
He panicked, and turned to the woman beside him. "Please don't do this," he said, and she ignored him, looking forward, down the dark corridor lit by flickering lanterns that didn't quite banish all the shadows in the corners. "Please."  
  
"You did what you did," she said. "Now we must do what we must. It is not our job to help criminals evade justice." She paused. "Even if you are just a child."  
  
He looked at her again, realized that she looked to be just the right age to have a son about as old as Draco.  
  
Suddenly she let go of his arm, and he almost crumpled to the floor before he caught himself. The cold was almost overwhelming, now, and the look of almost-pity in her eyes scared him. Without a word, the Aurors turned around as one and began walking in the direction they had come.  
  
It was silent for a long moment.  
  
The cold increased so exponentially and suddenly that Draco fell to his knees, shivering, the cold pushing its way into his open mouth and down his throat and into his lungs until he could not breathe.   
  
He heard the breathing first, a horrible rattling sound from all around him. Something curled around his arm and he stared at it in horror; slimy, decomposing fingers dug into the flesh of his forearm, and he looked up slowly into what seemed to be an all-invading blackness.  
  
He let out a shaky, pained gasp, and abruptly lost conciousness.

* * *

When he came to, on a cot in a cold, dank, claustrophobically tiny cell, there was a different kind of cold presence near him.  
  
"Get up."  
  
Draco opened his eyes, for a moment unable to focus in the flickering light emitted from the torch on the wall. Then he saw the shining white of his father's hair.  
  
"Father," he gasped, and sat up so quickly that his head spun and blackness speckled his vision. He swung his legs over the side of the small cot and stood up, swaying, looking into his father's icy blue eyes.  
  
"Draco," his father said, emotionless. Draco felt his heart falter in his chest.  
  
"Are you -- are you here to get me out?"   
  
Lucius regarded Draco for a long time.  
  
"No," he said finally.  
  
"Has Harry said anything?" Draco asked dully, not even bothering to change Harry's name into Potter for his father's benefit.  
  
"How should I know?" Lucius asked, sounding slightly irritated. "What were you thinking, Draco, letting yourself get caught? I did not realize that I had brought my son up to be such a traitorous fool. Get you out? Your mother and I are better off without you."  
  
"Father --" he started.  
  
Lucius backhanded Draco across the face, and Draco fell to the floor, his lip splitting and bleeding onto the stone. One of Lucius's rings had caught Draco's cheek and opened up a gash in the skin. He tried to lift himself up. "Fa --" His father's boot connected with his side as he got to his hands and knees; a shocked cry escaped his mouth when he heard the crunch of bone breaking as his ribs crumbled under the pressure. He crumpled at his father's feet, breathing in desperate, gasping sobs, swallowing blood, and hoping that one of his ribs hadn't punctured a lung, that the blood in his mouth was only from where one of his teeth had cut into his cheek.  
  
"You disgust me," Lucius hissed. "You will never attempt to contact either your mother or myself again. After you are released, do not try to find solace or shelter at the manor. If I see you again, I will have you killed."  
  
"Please, Father," Draco said, his voice flat and hopeless even to himself, his forehead pressed against the floor. He jumped as he felt his father's cane dig painfully into the back of his neck. With every breath he took, the cane dug a little sharper into his skin, and he began to wonder if his father would break his spine.  
  
"Do not," his father said in a low, dangerous voice, "address me in that manner again. For all forms and purposes, I am no longer your father."  
  
With that the cane was removed, and Lucius moved away. "I wish to leave," he said smoothly, and Draco listened, emotionless, to the open-and-shut of the door.  
  
He stayed where he was, forehead resting on the floor, watching as the mixed tears and sweat pooled beneath his face, his mind as empty and echoing as the silence after a scream.

* * *

Draco came out of his stupor slowly, and it took a great amount of effort to drag himself off the floor and sit on the cot, his broken ribs screaming in protest at the exertion, his muscles watery after spending who knows how long on the floor.  
  
He shivered and rubbed his arms absently as the feeling of pressing fear increased slightly. Draco looked at the door as the air became tight and close around him, panting slightly in the manner of a snared animal.   
  
The stone door creaked, and Draco heard that horrible rattling breathing again, just before the door opened slowly and fingers curled around the frame.  
  
"_Jesus_," Draco whispered, and abruptly it was as if he was back in the dungeon with his father -- like the metal was still stuck in his collarbone and chin and the powder was burning his skin. He could hear his father laughing softly; he could feel his father's soft fingers smoothing his hair back from his sweaty forehead. The torchlight flickered erratically around him, oblivious to his shrieks.   
  
His head hit the floor first when he fainted.

* * *

When he woke a few hours later -- wondering exactly how many hours he would spend passed out on the floor for the next twenty years -- he could not remember the first time Harry had smiled at him.  
  
He panicked for a moment, going over every moment of his life in his mind, before remembering that Harry Potter was a bloody traitor anyway and forgetting that unpleasant moment of his life was nothing horrible, that the dementors certainly could have sucked a different, more pleasant memory out of him. Although off the top of his head, he could not think of what.  
  
There was a bowl of greyish porridge by the door, and a slice of bread, and a newspaper.  
  
Draco leapt from the bed, wincing at the pain, his hands curling hungrily around the newspaper. He scanned the front page, hoping against hope that he would see something about Harry on it.  
  
His heart stopped in his chest.  
  
There was a picture of Harry in the infirmary at St. Mungo's. He was curled up in the bed, pale -- as far as Draco could see from the black and white newsprint -- but very obviously awake. He blinked blearily around, looking thoroughly confused; a white bandage was wrapped around his upper torso and shoulder. The nurse standing next to him looked angry.  
  
'Boy Who Lives Survives Assassination Attempt; Draco Malfoy Imprisoned On Murder Attempt Charges.'  
  
Draco's eyes widened, and he started pacing despite the pain in his side, reading the story feverishly for any sign that Harry had told them the truth. The real truth. There was none.  
  
Instead, Draco's name was plastered across the story with the title "the convicted" in front of it.   
  
_Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, prominent members of the wizarding community, was tried and sentenced to twenty consecutive years in Azkaban wizarding prison for the attempted murder of Harry James Potter.  
  
"I had a feeling from the first time I heard of my son's apparent enmity towards Mr. Potter that someday this latent desire for revenge would surface," Lucius Malfoy said. "I wish I could have been able to somehow stop it. However, I am thankful that Mr. Potter emerged unscathed. Even though Draco is my son, I am grateful to the Wizengamot and Chief Warlock James Brennan for giving him the punishment that he has brought upon himself. As of now, I publicly assert that Draco is no longer my heir nor a part of the Malfoy family. He will recieve no assistance from Narcissa or myself."_  
  
And two paragraphs later --  
  
_Potter was unavailable for comment._  
  
The newspaper dropped from Draco's suddenly nerveless fingers. Unavailable for comment. Harry was awake -- he could have said something; surely they would have listened. If he hadn't said something now, that meant he probably never was planning on it in the first place.  
  
Draco bared his teeth in a snarl.  
  
If Harry thought he could just -- betray Draco in this manner, he was about to learn something else. If nothing else, Draco had been raised a Malfoy. Presented with the correct incentive, he could be suitably patient.  
  
So he sat down on his cot calmly, aware as the hours passed and each memory of his mother, his friends, and Harry Potter was slowly leeched from his mind, fingered the cut on his cheek that his father's ring had made, and waited for the dementors to return.

* * *

Well yeah, it's short. But I'm leaving next week and I wanted to get this out 'fore I left.  
  
See ya'll in July! 


	5. Chapter Five

Mitzvahs

Chapter Five

by Capella

* * *

A/N: This little piggy is back from nerd camp. There isn't really anything I can tell you about it except that it was the best experience of my (admittedly rather young) life. However, it was so busy that I didn't get the chance to write. I did, however, do some plotting, and now I have most of the story figured out 'cept the end. Sorry it took so long. I really should be working on Black Eyes...but, I'm not.  
Well -- that's pretty much it. You guys know how much I love reading your reviews. Please leave some so I can blush and giggle like a little schoolgirl.  
Oh, and in case you didn't see the memo, I reversed the whole "bowing out of slash" thing I had going on. So this is quickly going to become a raving boy-love fest. Well...no, not really, but if you don't like slash, there's gonna be some innuendos in this chapter and a little bit more in the last chapter or so. Sorry if that pisses you off. It was freaking hard to write this as gen. Gargh. I'll give you fair warning of when it's coming.  
But anyway...here it is.  
Also, I feel the oddest urge to write Phelps/Thorpe porn. Swimporn. This is something to consider.

* * *

"And the angel hovered near me, 

And kissed me with the cold kiss of death.

This worthless body is my body!

Take it wherever you will,

For I am dead already."  
  
-- an opera singer whose name I don't know (if you know, email me)

* * *

The hours passed so slowly in Azkaban that sometimes Draco wondered, in his more lucid moments, if they passed at all.  
  
After his father had visited for the first time, giving him another scar on his cheek to match the first, Draco had went into what he considered a sort of coma. He ate and he drank what he was given, and he would have read the newspapers had the dementors given him anymore -- he supposed the first was just to torment him -- but he did it all with a sense of detachment.  
  
Then his next visit came, a half a year later.  
  
"All of Harry's friends fought for the chance to visit you."  
  
Draco inhaled sharply as the heel of a boot drove into his stomach, the force of the kick driving him off of the floor. The crack of a rib breaking sounded loud in the stifled, close air of the prison. He crashed back down hard, the wind knocking out of him as he hit the floor, his lip splitting on the stone. Struggling to regain breath, he looked up into his tormentor's angry blue eyes with his own dulled gray ones.  
  
"I guess I was the lucky one."  
  
Another sharp kick to his side, and the soft hiss of pain escaped Draco's lips before he could stop it.  
  
"I hate you," Weasley said, his voice trembling as if he were near tears, and he bent down and grabbed Draco by the back of his neck, dragging him up like a kitten. "You almost took my best friend away from me." Draco tried to stay on his feet, but his legs buckled and he fell to his knees, weaving unsteadily. Weasley sneered down at him, but it was tremulous through his angry grief. Draco looked up at him, and let a tiny bit of the contempt he felt show. Weasley's eyes widened; his fist connected with the side of Draco's face a second or two later.  
  
"Bastard," Weasley hissed. "He just got let out of the hospital, you know. I don't know what the fuck was in that poison, but it almost killed him. Then you feed us some halfcocked shit about Harry asking you to stab him --"  
  
"Do you want to know what was in the poison, Ron?" Draco's voice was low and smooth. "I could tell you, and you could make it, and come back in a half a year and give it to me. You could become just like me."  
  
"Shut up," Weasley said through gritted teeth.  
  
"Don't you want to avenge Harry? He could have died."  
  
"Are you _trying_ to goad me into beating the shit out of you, Malfoy?"  
  
Draco smirked up at Weasley. "You never found out my motivation for becoming friends with him, did you? That must make you so angry, that he would let someone like me know the same sorts of secrets he told you. Maybe it was to get close to him so I could kill him -- like I'm sure you're thinking right now -- but maybe it was something else." He paused for dramatic effect, and in the silence he could hear Ron breathing heavily through his mouth. He's attractive, you know. Maybe I just wanted to find out what it would be like to fuck the savior of the wizarding world. Maybe --"  
  
Draco fell to the floor when Weasley punched him again, in the same spot; he could already feel the bruise beginning to purple and swell.  
  
"You shut up right now, Malfoy, or I swear to _God_ --"  
  
Draco pulled himself to his feet using Weasley's shirt, and got up close to his face. "Maybe I already have had him," Draco breathed, a grin contorting his face, and he watched Ron's eyes widen.  
  
"If you have, Malfoy --" Ron couldn't seem to find the words. "I swear to God, if you have --"  
  
"You'll what? Kill me?" Draco smirked, bent his head slightly to one side to bear his neck. "Do it then. The dementors won't care. The wizarding world won't care."  
  
Ron was still staring at him, but he had a horrified look in his eyes. "This was a mistake," said Ron, and backed away from Draco slowly. "You're cracked. I'm not going to kill you, for God's sake."  
  
Draco growled up at him. "Just do it, Weasley, or I'll attack you and make you do it anyway."  
  
Ron was shaking his head. "No. No. I'm not going to kill you." Without taking his eyes off Draco, he reached around and knocked on the door quickly. "I want to leave."  
  
"Please," Draco whispered. Ron's eyes took on a faintly pitying look.  
  
"No," he said again, and the door slid open and he was gone.

* * *

Draco's third visit, six months after Ron and a year after his father's, surprisingly, was from Blaise. He had half-expected Granger to show up with a tackhammer. He supposed she hadn't the nerve.  
  
He had also expected by this time, a full year after his imprisonment, to have begun hearing voices and answering them, or to start collecting flies, or to make up an imaginary friend. But he had -- at least to himself -- managed to stay relatively sane.  
  
Although when Blaise walked in and Draco imagined himself stabbing Blaise through the eye with his own wand, he supposed he wasn't really completely uncracked, at that.  
  
"Draco," Blaise said, clearly expecting Draco to say something in return. There was a long silence. Obviously wanting to fill the uneasy silence, Blaise said, "How are you doi -- that is, um, I'm training to become an Auror, now."  
  
Draco supposed, silently and a bit bitterly, that rooming with the insane attempted killer of Harry Potter for near seven years would look impressive to the correct people. No doubt testifying against him at his trial certainly helped. Well, being fair, Blaise hadn't exactly testified against him, really, just presented certain information in answer to certain questions that looked a little incriminating. Draco still wanted to stab him through the eye with a wand. He wondered again at his alleged sanity, and dismissed the thought.  
  
"Draco," said Blaise, a little nervously, and stopped, staring down at Draco guiltily. Draco hadn't ever seen Blaise look guilty in their seven years of rooming together. It wasn't really a good look on him. Draco stared up at Blaise impassively, unblinking. "Draco, you know I didn't want you to end up in here."  
  
That was very reassuring. He could die in peace.  
  
"Draco?"  
  
Draco said nothing. He could see Blaise grow visibly agitated, and for a moment he felt a twinge of pity, wondering how long this had been weighing on Blaise's mind. Then he remembered how much he really hated Blaise, and the pity was gone.  
  
"You were always my best friend, you know. We had a good time, didn't we?" He sounded desperate. "Tripping Hufflepuffs, playing Quidditch, annoying Pott --  
  
"Don't say his name!"  
  
Draco's voice felt like broken glass in his own throat, raspy and disused after six months where the only time he'd had to use it was to scream late at night when he slept.  
  
"Okay," Blaise said, running a hand through his hair. He'd grown it out, and it hung almost to his shoulders. Draco wanted to tell him to stop copying his own style, but since his was lanky and unwashed and Blaise's wasn't, he stayed silent. "But I tried to get you out of here, Draco. I swear I did. Went to Dumbledore, Snape, _Fudge_, for God's sake. None of them believed me. Well -- Snape did, Dumbledore might have. But Fudge wouldn't move. Said that what I told him was worthless without Potter's testimony." He saw Draco tense and stopped. "Pot -- I mean, he won't say anything besides that he doesn't remember an -- an agreement, between the two of you. He says the night it happened is fuzzy to him. He refuses to testify for you."  
  
Draco wondered absently why he didn't feel anything. After a long silence in which Draco refused to speak, Blaise seemed to give up. At the door, however, he turned around and gave Draco a long, sad look.  
  
"There aren't always people who can save you, you know," he said, and left.  
  
Draco saw no one else for another six months besides the dementors. By then, his mind had forgotten anything else but revenge, and his throat had forgotten how to do anything but scream.

* * *

Draco kept track of the time by putting notches in the bed for every visitor he had.  
  
After every visit, he'd notch a scratch into the soft wood of the bed using a fingernail. Then, for another six months, he would sit on his bed and stare at the notches, counting and going over every visit in his head, tracing the marks lightly.  
  
_Father, Ron, Blaise, Lupin, Hermione, Mandy, Seamus, Snape, McNair._  
  
_One, two, three four five sixseveneightnine.  
_  
_A day, six months, a year, a year and a half, two years, two and a half, three, three and a half, four._  
  
Lupin had not acted angry, really, but Draco could tell he had wanted to; he supposed it was against Lupin's nature to be particularly violent, from what Harry had told him. Hermione had obviously been told of what had happened during Ron's visit, and had carefully avoided any talk of death. Draco supposed she only wanted to understand -- all her questions where things like _why?_ and _what happened?_ and _were you ever really friends?_ She left after only a little while, when Draco refused to answer. He didn't know if he remembered how. Mandy -- she was a vengeful little bitch. Harry and she had cut it off shortly after he'd recovered, she considered it to be through some fault of his, as if stabbing Harry had given him some sort of revelation. Draco thought it would be humorous if it had. Draco felt a bit of something like sorrow at Seamus' visit, one Gryffindor besides Harry for whom he had felt a sort of grudging regard; Seamus, evidently, no longer felt anywhere near the same.  
  
Draco found that the memories of Snape's visit were gone a week or two later and was a little saddened.  
  
One day, five months after Snape came, he realized it was his twenty-first birthday, and he stared at the wall opposite him and tried to remember his sixteenth.  
  
He tried hard to forget about McNair's visit, McNair's touch, and failed.  
  
Six months after that, his father came.  
  
His father didn't hit him, this time, or even touch him at all. He simply walked in the room and smiled down at Draco, sitting on his cot, with a silkily-sweet sort of smile.  
  
"Did you like my birthday present? A few months late, I suppose, but McNair was eager." His father's eyes had a nasty look in them. "He told me what he planned to do to you. I thought it was fitting. He always had a sadistic streak in him."  
  
"You won't break me this way," Draco said in a voice so hoarse that he could barely recognize it as his own.  
  
"I know," said Lucius, walking foward with that smile, cupping Draco's cheeks and placing a kiss on his forehead in a manner that, apart from everything else, would have been almost kind. "But you must understand that I broke you from the moment I first gave you this." He traced the silvery, faded scar that his cane had made with his thumb. "The rest of this is for my own pleasure only."  
  
Lucius straightened and left. Draco put another notch in the bed.  
  
_Ten. Four and a half._

* * *

One day, six years later, when Draco was sitting on his bed, eating and staring blankly at the wall opposite him, he felt something strange. An odd feeling as if a huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders. His back straightened almost automatically. The dementors were -- _gone_.  
  
Draco stared harder at the wall and tried to figure out exactly what had happened. Strangely enough, an article from the Daily Prophet kept flashing through his mind, all the way back from fifth year.  
  
**MASS BREAKOUT FROM AZKABAN **

**MINISTRY FEARS BLACK IS "RALLYING POINT" FOR OLD DEATH EATERS**  
  
_The Ministry of Magic announced late last night that there has been a mass breakout from Azkaban._  
  
And then, suddenly, the door slid open, and this _had_ to be some sort of weird dream, didn't it, because there was a young, quite healthy-looking Voldemort standing in the doorway, staring at him with slitted red eyes, looking not at all surprised to find him there. Behind him, Draco could see shadowy figures of escaping prisoners, Death Eaters. Voldemort's black lips curved in a little smirk.  
  
"Young Master Malfoy," said Voldemort, and Draco slid off the bed to his hands and knees, bowing his head and feeling a little shiver of distaste going up his spine.  
  
"My Lord," he murmured, ignoring the sparks of pain in his throat as he talked for the first time in years.  
  
"Oh, get up, boy." Voldemort sounded annoyed. "I know you have never followed me. There is no need for a charade." As Draco climbed slowly to his feet, brushing his long, greasy hair away from his face, Voldemort gave him a calculating glance. "But -- there is something you could do for me." He held out his hand. "Murdoch. Give me a wand."  
  
One of the shadowy figures came up and placed a wand into Voldemort's hand. Voldemort smiled. "I came prepared, Master Malfoy," he said, in answer to Draco's unspoken question. "My faithful here have had their wands taken away, broken. They are no use to me without them. I managed to procure a good amount -- and, if you are willing to do a small task, I would, in turn, be willing to give you one and get you off this island."  
  
"Anything," Draco said immediately, and Voldemort laughed.  
  
"Eager, Master Malfoy? I would imagine so. But do not worry; I imagine my designs fit quite nicely with yours." He studied Draco a little harder. "One of my Death Eaters has been getting -- ambitious, shall we say. He fancies himself to be the next Dark Lord, and while he has only a few followers, none of which I imagine to be very faithful, he is getting to be quite a nuisance. I want him disposed of. You would do nicely."  
  
Draco narrowed his eyes. "There is something you aren't telling me," he said. Voldemort raised an eyebrow.  
  
"Are you not afraid of me, to speak so impertinently?" he said instead of answering, but Draco could tell he was not angry, merely wondering. Draco shrugged and chose not to speak. "Yes. There is something I am not telling you. This Death Eater is someone I imagine you hold quite a grudge against."  
  
"My father." Draco's reply was instant. Voldemort gave him another little smirk and nodded.  
  
"Yes. Your father. I want him killed. I imagine that you do as well. I also wonder if you want other wizards dead as well -- and I would have no objection to that, either."  
  
_Harry Potter._ Voldemort did not need to say it.  
  
"I will give you this wand and provide you with a portkey. However, I do not want you to be killed -- at least, before you can do what you need to. The portkey will take you to a deserted cave a ways outside of Surrey. I expect you to stay there, and practice -- learn what you have missed and forgotten in the eleven years spent here. Do whatever you need to to survive." He pressed the wand into Draco's palm and laid a small gold ring on the floor. "I do not expect you to fail."  
  
Without another word, Voldemort turned and whisked out of the room, his Death Eaters following him. Draco stared down at his dirty hand, holding the wand, and then glanced to the gold ring on the floor. A small smile curved his lips as he bent down to take the portkey.

* * *

Revenge is a dish best served cold.  
  
-- old Klingon proverb

* * *

A/N: Done! Hooray! Feedback! 


	6. Chapter Six

Mitzvahs

Chapter Six

by Capella

* * *

A/N: Sorry this was so long in coming. I tried to get Black Eyes done before this, but since I'm currently stuck on that, I figured I'd do this first.  
Just remember, this will be slash soon -- probably no sex, but slash. Sorry if that pisses anyone off. Just -- pretend it isn't there or something.  
Violence. Seriously. I mean it. But 'm sure you guys saw that coming.

* * *

"Ah, God! what trances of torments does that man endure who is consumed with one unachieved revengeful desire. He sleeps with clenched hands; and wakes with his own bloody nails in his palms." 

Herman Melville, Moby Dick

* * *

"Wingardium leviosa." 

The beetle scuttled by Draco's outstretched foot, unperturbed. Draco set his jaw and tried again.

"Wingardium leviosa!"

The beetle paused for a moment as if sensing something, its antennae wiggling furiously, and scurried off in the opposite direction.

"Fuck!"

Draco threw his wand and it hit the wall of the cave with a clatter. He pulled his knees up to his chest, feeling his heartbeat throb behind his eyes. He almost imagined he could hear it, echoing softly off the walls of the cave, and the thought made him smile a little.

It had been three months since Draco had touched the portkey and been pulled to the cave, and those three months had been painstakingly spent trying to learn what he had spent eleven years forgetting, trying to aquire skills he was never taught. Once he had been sent a tawny owl with a book of spells dangling from its claws, but other than that he had been utterly alone. An underground stream ran through the cave a ways back, which he used for drinking water and food, when he managed to catch a fish. Other than that, he survived off rats. From what he could tell, when he had gotten bored one day and decided to explore, the cave was huge, probably going on for miles. He didn't get that far. Getting lost was not part of the plan.

Sometimes he would sit and wonder what Harry was doing as he practiced his Crucios and Avada Kedavras on passing rats and insects. Did he have a family? Did he think of Draco at all? Draco giggled a little again. If Harry hadn't thought of Draco before, he would once Draco found him. He would think about Draco a whole lot. Draco had a lot of plans for Harry; maybe he would kiss him and then crack open his skull with a rock, or maybe he would find Ron and make Harry kill Ron and then Draco would kiss him and put Crucio on him until Harry went insane. Draco was a little disturbed by his fascination with Harry's mouth, but it disturbed him no more than his desire to rip Harry's heart, still beating, out of his bloody chest.

He supposed that Harry should be the last one he killed, for poetry's sake, although when he thought about it he didn't know how it was poetic at all, unless he considered Harry's mouth, which he could probably compose sonnets about. He snickered and then for some reason felt a little nauseous.

No, others would be first. Maybe Blaise first, or Mandy, or Ron. He knew how to kill each one. Especially Blaise; he'd known ever since Blaise had visited him at the prison how he would die. He did not know if he would kill Seamus or Hermione, the two Gryffindors he had not hated his last year at school.

But that would come later. First --

The little beetle scurried back by Draco's foot. Draco got up and walked over to the other side of the cave, picking up his wand. He laid down on his stomach, propped himself up on his elbows, and pointed his wand at the bug.

"Crucio."

The little bug quivered and started convulsing, rolling over onto its back, its legs twitching wildly in the air. Draco laughed so hard his stomach hurt.

Not long now, he thought, and prodded the beetle with his wand until it caught fire.

* * *

Blaise knew something was wrong the minute he opened the door. 

It was -- quiet. For the first time in two years, six months, and three days. Which either meant that Cale was sleeping through the night, finally, or that his wife had taken Cale out somewhere.

He raised an eyebrow at the mess left in the kitchen and wondered how the house elves had gotten so lazy all of a sudden.

"Alex?" he shouted. There was no answer. "Are you home?"

"No one's home, Blaisey-boy," someone whispered into his ear, soft breath fanning over his cheek, and Blaise froze in shock. "Just you and me and the bodies in the bedrooms." A breath of laughter.

It was a few seconds before he could finally make his legs stumble away, forward somehow, until his midsection hit the kitchen table and he could pull himself upright and turn around, his heart pounding a frantic tattoo in his chest.

A figure was sitting in one of the chairs across the dark room, a figure with long, lanky blonde hair. Two gray pairs of eyes glittered sardonically at him from across the room. An insane, tiny smile was on a pair of chapped, bloody lips. For a moment Blaise could not believe what he saw.

"Draco?" he whispered, and for a moment he thought that Draco hadn't heard. But a few minutes later, he saw Draco's lips quirk up into a wider smile. It looked unnatural on Draco's face.

"Give the boy a prize," he said equally softly, and Blaise shuddered to hear the madness in his voice. He took a tentative step sideways, preparing to run from the room if necessary. "Your hair looks nice, Blaise." Reflexively, Blaise reached up to touch his shoulder-length blonde hair.

"What are you doing here?"

Draco raised an eyebrow and for a moment looked like the old Draco that Blaise knew. "I think you meant to ask what I am doing outside of Azkaban. But I think that really does not concern you. Don't you?" Blaise nodded slowly. Keep him talking. Let me get to my child and my wife. "Well. Perhaps you should be asking what I am doing here, at your house." Draco paused, and seemed to be waiting for some sort of reply.

"What are you doing at my house?" Blaise asked, shuffling to the side again. Draco grinned.

"I remember my trial quite clearly," he said, and with a horrified sort of realization Blaise knew where he was going with that. "I remember what everyone said about me. I remember what my roommate said about me. You made me look bad, Blaise. Very bad. That really hurt me, you know. I thought you had been my friend."

"I'm sorry?" Blaise offered, all the while seeing how close he could get to the stairs without Draco noticing.

"Accepted," Draco said casually. "And I wouldn't bother going upstairs to check on your family. I killed them before you came home. I didn't want anyone distracting us. I want you," he said and smiled wider, "all to myself."

"What?" Blaise asked dumbly, still stuck on the word "killed." It circled around in his head until it was all he could think or see besides the little maddening smile on Draco's face.

"It is your fault, you realize," Draco said, getting up out of his chair, moving as sinuously as a dancer. "You should have realized that you could not go unpunished." He reached into his pocket for something, and at that moment Blaise realized what he was going to do. He reached into his own pocket for his wand.

Draco was faster.

"Crucio."

Liquid fire danced along Blaise's nerve endings and he collapsed, whimpering mindlessly through pain so intense that he could barely see, feel, hear. Through sight blurred with tears and pain, he saw Draco's smiling visage hovering over him. He tried to strike, thinking of Cale lying dead in his cradle and his wife dead in their bed, but a fresh wave of pain hit him and it was all he could do not to scream.

"You do not know how long I have wanted to do this, my friend," Draco sighed, and to Blaise's pain-filled mind his voice was as harsh as a lark's and as grating. He managed to keep his eyes on Draco and saw Draco pick up his wand from where it was sitting next to him. He watched, transfixed, as the wand came down towards his eye, and when he reflexively closed it, the point came to rest on his closed eyelid. Draco sighed again, sounding almost perfectly content watching Blaise writhe in pain.

"Do try and think about the consequences of your actions this time, dear Blaise," Draco said, and started to slowly push the wand downwards, laughing, seemingly unheeding of the spurting blood and Blaise's panicked, animals screams.

* * *

Draco smiled gently down at her, holding the mallet he'd transfigured from the stirring-spoon in his right hand. Pansy tried to move again, but the full body-bind he'd put on her only moments ago was as strong as it had been then. Draco had caught her sleeping, unaware of anything wrong until she'd tried to move and found she could not. He had moved her to the floor but had not told her why. 

"Draco," she said, her mouth dry. "Draco, let me go. Now."

Draco stroked her hair back from her face. He looked almost normal, like he hadn't been in Azkaban for eleven or so years -- his hair, while long, looked clean, his clothes looked good and costly, although he was extremely slim and had splatters of something dark on his face. He was almost frighteningly attractive, just as he had been while still at school. He caught her looking and answered as if he knew what she was thinking.

"While I was at Blaise's house, I took the liberty of washing up and taking some of his clothes. I knew he would not mind. He had other pressing issues at hand."

Pansy knew Blaise was dead even before Draco finished his sentence. She did not curse or try to strike or plead. It was pointless, anyway.

"You missed a few spots," she said, trying to smile a little, her eyes focused on what she knew was blood on his face and neck. He did not smile back.

"I know."

There was a long pause.

"You were the first person I ever slept with, you know, back in fourth year," he said quietly, and for a moment he sounded almost sane. "But you always cared so much what everyone thought of you. When I started becoming friends with Potter, that was just it for you. And at the trial --"

"I said nothing wrong!"

"-- you told the judges I had been acting strange lately. Strange, Pansy? That did not sound incriminating at all, did it?"

"Draco!" She was getting angry now, angry and a little scared despite herself at the wicked gleam in Draco's eyes. "For fuck's sake --"

Draco tsked and grabbed her right hand, pulling it to the side and then doing the same to the other until she was stretched out in a spread-eagle position on the floor. "Language, Pansy." He said nothing else but tapped her right hand lightly with his mallet, settling down on his knees next to her side. Pansy was suddenly a bit more afraid than she had been.

"Draco --"

Suddenly the mallet whistled down with a force that was more powerful than Pansy would have thought Draco could muster, weak as he should have been from his years in Azkaban. She let out a pained, choked cry as the bones in her fingers were crushed beyond recognition, splintered and some driving through the skin of her hand. It felt as if he had lit her hand on fire. She sobbed as he stroked her mutilated hand gently.

"Come now, Pansy. You had to know this was coming."

He moved around to her other side, looking at her wickedly from under lowered lashes, tapping her other hand with the mallet.

"Oh, God --" she cried, unable to stop herself. "Draco, please!"

"Did you hear me beg at the trial, you little bitch?" Draco snarled. "I begged when they lead me away and I begged when I realized I would be spending the rest of my life in that fucking place."

He brought the mallet down hard on Pansy's other hand, and she screamed this time, degenerating into sobbing, almost hyperventilating breaths.

It hurt worse as he crushed her feet, destroyed her kneecaps, broke her collarbone, and she drifted in and out of a pained consciousness.

She felt him tap the mallet on her cheek.

"Please, Draco," she whispered. He smiled down at her before bringing the mallet to crush into her cheekbone. She whimpered, too exhausted to do much else, as the bones of her jaw and cheek drove through the skin of her mouth and through her gums. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to be.

It was almost a blessing when she saw the mallet coming down towards her head.

* * *

Mandy had seen Draco walking on the street late at night in downtown London, but she had not connected the dots until he had walked right by her and pressed something into her hand. Seconds later she had felt the familiar tugging in her navel and felt the world dimming away, and when she opened her eyes again, she was in some sort of -- cave. 

"Did you like the Portkey, Mandy?"

She spun around, but a body-bind hit her before she could draw her own wand. She stood upright, glaring poison at the man standing in front of her.

"Draco Malfoy," she hissed through clenched teeth. He was startlingly beautiful for a convict, but he had a strange look in his eyes. It didn't matter to her. She had hated him for eleven years. "What the hell am I here for."

Draco smiled slowly. "Bitch," he breathed. "You know perfectly well what I brought you to the place to do. I have been waiting for this moment for a longer time than you can even imagine." He blinked as if considering something. "Although you are not my top priority. I know you can imagine who that honor is reserved for."

"You lay a hand on Harry and I'll slit your throat, you little shit."

"No, you won't." Draco looked wickedly pleased with himself. "You'll already be dead."

Her breath caught in her throat. The thought that he would actually kill her had never crossed her mind. She began to feel a little afraid.

"But I want it to last with you, dear," he said in an almost fond tone. "I've been waiting for this for so long that to have it over quickly would almost be too anticlimactic. Now, Mandy Brocklehurst, are you familiar with the process of being skinned alive?"

She gazed at him uncomprehendingly.

"Well, I suppose not. Being skinned alive is when --"

"I know what it means!" she snapped. "I just cannot believe that you would be so -- barbaric." Despite her words, a small worm of cold fear was curling unpleasantly in her stomach. He smiled as if he knew her thoughts.

"I suppose being locked up with dementors will do that to you," he said softly. He picked up a knife from the floor. It glinted off the lamplight from the oil lamp in the corner of the cave. He saw her glancing at the lamp and grinned. "I've gotten better at Transfigurations."

"Have you." Her voice was neutral. He did not respond, but stalked closer, knife in hand.

"I have heard that Muggles who use this technique must tie up their victims. I wonder how the experience will differ in your place, as you need no restraints but magical ones." He tilted his head and cut off the bottom half of her shirt. Her stomach shivered in the cold.

He brought the knife up to her abdomen.

"This looks like a good place to start," he said, and began cutting. She did not scream until he peeled her skin back from the muscles like an orange, and even then she did not scream for mercy.

Those screams came later, after Draco began on her legs and back.

* * *

Draco sat by Mandy's body, tapping his wand against his cheek consideringly. 

Blaise had been easy to kill, and so had Pansy. Mandy had been a little bit messy, but for some reason Draco had never considered the amount of blood involved with skinning a body. She had lasted a good while, and he had almost been impressed that she had not begged until the end, although by that time he had gotten tired of her curses and insults. She was dead now, anyway.

Draco was a bit stuck on who to kill next.

He had killed those three. He wanted Potter. But he figured that with Voldemort on the loose, Potter probably had a Secret-Keeper. He grinned. He knew who that was.

He already knew how to get the secret out of Weasley and Granger, too. Then he'd kill them.

Then, Harry. He would find out why he was betrayed, and kiss Harry as Harry died.

Draco did not notice the tears running down his cheeks, mixing with the blood of his three victims that he had not bothered to wash off his face.

* * *


	7. Chapter Seven

Mitzvahs

Chapter Seven

by Capella

A/N: Enjoy, and review! Can't believe this took like -- three months because I'm a lazy jerk!

* * *

The red telephone box was in the same place it had always been in. He'd had a rough time remembering where it had been located after so many years, but a few well-placed questions had finally led him to the dingy street with the graffiti-covered wall.

He dialled the number, 62442, with shaking fingers. The box seemed to be closing in around him as he waited.

A woman's voice spoke almost immediately, sounding as if she was standing right beside him.

"Please state your name and your business," she said, her voice clipped. He supposed the caution was because of the breakout from Azkaban.

"Ethan Erickson," he said. "I have information that I need to give to the head of the Department of Law Enforcement."

He was sure she would hear his voice tremble. The obscure Dark charm he had put to change his facial features had worked perfectly -- ever so slightly, but enough that he wouldn't be recognizable; he was not strong enough to completely change his face. But since he had only found a small reference to it, he did not know everything about the spell. Would it last? Had it worn off even now as he stood here trying to break into the Ministry of Magic? Would the Ministry suspect that persona he had stolen was that of a dead man whose blood was only just cooling?

There was a long pause.

"This information --" the witch started.

"Is classified."

Another long pause.

"Very well, Mr. Erickson." There was a little click as a shiny silver badge popped out of a slot on the telephone. Draco took it and peered at it cautiously. 'Ethan Erickson' was printed on the badge. There was a jolt as the lift began descending.

He could hardly believe it had been so easy. How had Voldemort's followers never infiltrated the Ministry of Magic?

He paused, and reconsidered. He really had no way of knowing whether the Ministry had been infilitrated already. He would have to be watchful.

Finally the doors opened.

Draco stepped out onto beautiful, polished dark wood, the heels of his smart black shoes clicking on the floor as he walked down the large hall. Gilded fireplaces lined the left side of the hall, and Draco saw a plump older witch step out of one, brushing ash off her plum robes and looking hassled. He glanced up at the ceiling, distracted by the moving gold symbols on the rich blue background. A young witch, hurrying down the hall with a handful of paperwork, gave him a quick, darting look and blushed when he winked.

Draco passed the Fountain of Magical Bretheren without a glance for its statues and finally came to the golden gates at the end of the long hall.

"Wand, please," said the bored-looking security guard at the stand. Draco handed over the real Ethan's wand, and the security guard -- whose namebadge said Eric -- registered it and handed it back without a second glance at Draco, who immediately took off through the gates towards the series of lifts beyond.

As the lift rattled up towards level two, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Draco spun Ethan's wand between his fingers and smirked. It had taken him several weeks to prepare for this visit, but it would all be well worth it soon.

The temporary dementia he had experienced in the weeks past had faded to a managable level. From his readings, he determined that it was the effects of the dementors; and that the longer the stay in Azkaban, the longer the insanity afterwards lasted, and that although it would eventually go away, it would never completely fade. He would always be prone to fits of dementia in cases of extreme emotional distress.

The lift slowed to a stop, and he stepped out onto a scene of madness.

Wizards and witches looking harried rushed by him onto the lift, which hurtled away as if it sensed the urgency of the ones riding it. As Draco walked through the hallways that led to the Auror headquarters, the magical windows streaming in sunlight, witches and wizards rushed by him, yelling out orders and information. He managed to snatch little parts of conversation here and there.

"Some witch just called in with a lead on a Death Eater in East London --"

" -- reported sightings near Hogwarts --"

" -- don't know what happened, but goddamn if I'll let them get near Harry --"

Draco froze as he stepped into the Auror headquarters. That last voice was familiar. He looked through the rows of desks and saw the backs of a witch and a wizard, one with long bushy hair, the other one tall with bright red hair. They were talking furiously to each other. Draco's heart thumped painfully in his chest.

"Mr. Weasley?" he said, but his voice did not penetrate through the other voices and noises. He trotted to catch up to them. "Mr. Weasley?"

Ron turned to face him, eyes a furious, bright blue in his face, red with anger, and suddenly Draco was hurled back ten years into a dark, damp little cell, and he was on the floor trying so desperately to catch his breath and hoping to God that the last kick had not driven a broken rib throug his lung, and angry blue eyes stared down at him vindictavely, hoping for his pain and his anguish and his death because of something he had not done. Draco was caught staring, his mouth open, and Ron's face grew redder. Hermione placed a soothing hand on his arm. Finally he was able to speak. Phantom pain throbbed in his side.

"Mr. Weasley, I'm Ethan Erickson, and I --"

Hermione interrupted Draco gently, as if she did not trust Ron to speak. "I'm really very sorry, Mr. Erickson, but neither my husband or I have much time to speak with anyone. He is one of the Aurors working to find the escaped Death eaters. We have only found a few in the months they have been out, so I'm very sorry but we must get back to work."

They turned to leave. Draco caught Ron's sleeve. Ron spun around angrily.

"Didn't you hear Hermione?" he asked incredulously. "We have to --"

Draco tamped down his pride, which was demanding rather bossily that he rip out Ron's throat with his bare hands. "Please, I know that you're busy --"

"-- find out where the Death Eaters are, and --"

Draco tried to interrupt, but Ron's voice was raising in volume exponentially. Finally, after several minutes of imagining tearing out Ron's spinal cord through his neck, Draco shouted,

"They're going to try to kill Harry Potter!"

The entire office quieted immediately, and two pairs of incredulous eyes -- one blue, one brown -- focused their attention on him. All of their attention.

"Excuse me?" Hermione said softly.

"I have come upon certain -- information that leads me to believe that the Death Eaters -- will try to kill Harry Potter very, very soon."

Ron looked half disbelieving, half angry. "There's no way they'd ever find him," he said. "Trust me when I say that Harry Potter is in a very safe place."

Draco looked around at the interested faces among them. "Perhaps we should take this to a more private location?" he suggested pointedly. After a moment, Hermione nodded.

They ended up in a closet across from the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office. Ron squared off from Draco as if he were expecting a fight, angry furrows in his forehead. Hermione looked intrigued.

"Now, I don't know who you are," Ron hissed, "but this information of yours is complete bullshit. Harry is safe where he is --"

"If you're talking about the Fidelus charm, forget it," Draco snarled in return. "That charm did not save Lily and James Potter from dying, and it will do no better on Harry."

Ron's face grew even redder, if that was possible. Hermione spoke next.

"Why are you telling us this?"

Draco's heart pounded erratically in his chest.

"I can give the information to you," he said slowly, saying the words he had been rehersing for a week. "But not here. I have certain connections to the Death Eaters, familial connections which I came into involuntarily and which I find distasteful. Come to this address --" he handed a slip of folded paper to Hermione -- "tomorrow night at one in the morning."

Hermione looked at the slip of paper, and blinked. "This is in Surrey." She peered at him. "Do you live there?"

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Do you know anyone who lives in Surrey?"

Ron looked over her shoulder, and looked shocked. "That's Harry's old house!" He looked up at Draco, eyes narrow. "Who did you say you were?"

"Well, it isn't as if anyone lives there anymore," Draco pointed out coolly. It was true; after Harry had stopped needing the Dursley's protection, they had immediately moved far away from Surrey, to some unknown location.

"Why can't you give the information to us now?" Hermione asked, but Draco was already leaving.

* * *

"This is not a good idea," Hermione said again, frustrated and worried, and Ron shook his head. His eyes were focused.

"I'm an Auror, Hermione," he said firmly. "I have to follow the leads that I recieve, just like the other Aurors do. I've been doing it for four years. I can handle this."

"Ron, other Aurors operate in teams! You didn't even tell anyone!"

"If Harry's life is in danger --"

"Your life may be in danger!" she said, hating how high-pitched her voice had become. Ron just shook his head again.

"You were the one who insisted on coming," he said, glancing over at her, and she pressed her lips together tightly.

"I couldn't let you go alone," she muttered as they mounted the steps to the house.

Ron touched the doorknob and opened the door, and suddenly there was a white flash of light so bright that she shut her eyes and screamed, and when the light receded she was sitting on a moldy couch staring down at her husband on the floor, blinking stupidly and wondering when her hands had been tied.

"Hermione." The voice came in a sibilant hiss from the other side of the room, and she squinted to see in the dim light of only a few candles.

She gasped when the figure stepped into the candlelight.

"Draco?" she whispered, disbelieving what she saw even as she stared at his glittering gray eyes, his shining blonde hair and the same arrogent, sneering curl on his perfect lips he'd worn in their years at Hogwarts.

On the floor at her feet, his hands similarly bound behind his back, Ron moaned as he began to awake.

Hermione wondered how she could have been so blind.

"You were Ethan Erickson," she said, and it wasn't really a question. Draco laughed.

"Of course I was," he said, sounding amused. "I really don't see how you got through seven years at Hogwarts at the top of your class and couldn't figure out that something was suspicious when someone you'd never met asked you to met at a deserted house. I can't believe you agreed. It could not have gone better if I had cast Imperius on you."

"Why are you doing this?" she said, hating the way it came out pleading.

Ron stirred again, and let out a long string of obscenities when he tried to sit up but was unable to because of his tied hands. Draco's eyes had gone deadly cold and serious.

"I need to know how to find Harry Potter."

Ron coughed, and started laughing. "Bastard," he choked out. "You little rat bastard. I don't know how you escaped from Azkaban, but when my backup team of Aurors arrive, they'll boot your arse back there so fast --"

"You don't have a backup team, Weasel," Draco said mockingly. "Stupid little Ron, wants to be the big bad Auror after four years of languishing out of the spotlight. Thought he could rope himself some Death Eaters and maybe get some fame and a few pennies out of the deal." Draco smirked. "And if you do have a team of Aurors coming, let me assure you that all they'll find here is an empty house and two desiccated corpses."

"No!" Hermione said, panic flaring, at the same time that Ron growled, "Keep your dirty hands off her, you little bastard!"

Draco laughed, and the sound of it sent chills down Hermione's spine.

"You're listening to me now, aren't you?" he asked. "Maybe if you had listened to me eleven fucking years ago, you both wouldn't have to die."

"Listen to what?" Ron demanded, twisting around on the floor until he managed to get to a sitting position. "Listen to you tell about how you had worked for a year and a half to gain Harry's trust, just so that you could stab him in the back -- oh, I'm sorry, the shoulder; you have pretty piss-poor aim -- and then take his dead body back to your impotent lord so he could give you a few prisoners to play with and a pat on the back?"

Draco was across the room in a heartbeat, and Ron was flung back to the floor from the force of Draco's slap.

"You speak of what you do not know," he seethed, as Ron struggled to sit up again. "Keep talking along that same vein and I'll rape your wife while you watch."

Ron froze.

Draco relaxed, walking back to the other side of the room and pulling a chair out of the corner. He dragged it to the middle of the room and sat down, studying Hermione and Ron as he pulled a vial of clear liquid out of his pocket and tapped it consideringly against his leg.

"There is a way you can save her life, Ron."

"Anything." Ron's reply was instantaneous, and Hermione winced. She knew what Draco wanted.

Draco's eyes glittered. "I know that you're Harry's secret-keeper. If you want to save Hermione's life, you'll tell me where Harry is."

Tricky, tricky bitch, Hermione thought angrily, watching as her husband was torn apart between his love for her and for his best friend. But even though she seethed inside, a little kernel of pity grew in her stomach for Draco. She didn't know if he was innocent, but her suspicions grew every passing moment.

"Hermione --" Ron said, eyes glistening, glancing back and forth between her and Draco. "I don't --"

"Don't worry about me, Ron," she said, hating how trite and cliche it sounded. She was his wife. Of course he would worry about her; she could see his mind being made up. "You can't betray Harry."

"But Hermione --" he said, sounding so anguished that her heart broke for him. Draco was smiling, his eyes dark and hooded, and it made her shiver.

"Ron," he said. She could feel rather than see Ron's attention slide involuntarily to their tormentor. "Let me make this easier for you. I have a vial of Veritaserum --" he held up the little clear bottle for their inspection " -- and if you refuse to willingly give up Harry's location, I will administer this to you, after which I will kill both you and Hermione anyway." He narrowed his eyes. "If you choose to tell me now and you lie to me, I will return and kill your wife and your baby that I know you have living at the flat your mother managed to help you buy in London."

Tears were coursing down Ron's cheeks now. "Why?" he choked out, and Draco laughed.

"You can even ask that?" he demanded. "I go through eleven years of hell for something I did not do, and you can ask me that? You come to my cell and torment me, and you can ask me that?" Draco leaned foward, an intense look on his face. "I want to be able to go to Harry and tell him, right before I kill him, whose fault it was that I found him. I will enjoy his betrayed expression almost as much as I'm enjoying this."

Ron slumped in his bonds, and instinctively Hermione knew what he would do.

"Godric's Hollow," he said tiredly, his voice flat. Hermione widened her eyes. She had expected him to talk, but not to tell the truth. "He rebuilt the home where his parents had lived." Ron's voice cracked at the last.

Draco let out a short, surprised bark of laughter. "His parents' old home?" He shook his head. "I really should have known. How like Potter."

"We had a deal," Ron said, looking up at Hermione with bloodshot eyes. The glare he sent Draco was venomous. "You said you'd spare her life."

"Don't worry about your wife, Weasley," Draco said softly. "She will live. I think that you should be worrying about yourself now."

Draco got up and walked slowly over to Ron.

"I remember every single wound you inflicted on me in Azkaban," he said quietly. Hermione wanted badly to close her eyes from watching what she knew was coming. "Every single broken rib -- " he dug his foot forcibly into Ron's stomach, and Ron let out a choked cry and vomited on the rug, doubling over. "Every single punch --" Draco grabbed Ron's collar and dragged him up, only to slam a fist into his jaw. "Every bruise." He dropped Ron to the floor, where he lay moaning softly. Hermione's body felt frozen, unable to move as she heard the slam of a shoe on flesh and the crack of broken ribs.

"Draco," she whispered, and he paused. "Please, don't kill him."

"Are you serious?" he asked, sounding surprised. "Do you know for how many years I have longed for this moment?"

She shook her head, feeling as if the world had suddenly dropped out beneath her feet. "What happened that night, Draco?"

"Do you care?" he shot back venomously.

"Yes."

He stared at her for a long moment. "My father wanted me to kill him," he said flatly. "He gave me poison to put in his drink. I couldn't do it. He gave me a poison dagger, so I went up to Harry's room after dinner and even then I couldn't do it. I knew my father would kill me if I refused, so Harry offered to make it look like I had tried to kill him. He almost died for me." There were tears in Draco's voice.

"Then, after I was arrested and brought to court, my friends turned against me. My family turned against me. My father -- he denied ever telling me to kill Harry Potter. It was foolish of me to think he would actually protect me.

"The I find out that Harry denies the whole incident, and what the fuck am I supposed to think? That he just happened to forget?" Draco's voice was furious.

"That's why you want to find him," she said. "To kill him."

"You're damned right I'm going to kill him."

"Then why do you have to kill Ron?"

He seemed at a loss for words, but he had drawn his wand from his pocket. Hermione's heart beat hard in her chest.

"Please, Draco," Hermione whispered, hot tears streaming down her face. "For the sake of what you and Harry once shared."

Draco looked up at her, beautiful gray eyes wide and startled.

"What the hell are you talking about," he hissed, taking his attention away from Ron.

"Oh, Draco," she said softly, her voice sympathetic even as Ron lay half-conscious and bleeding on the floor. "You could pretend to everyone, but you're not so good at hiding as you think to be."

"What --"

"I saw the looks," she pressed on, insistantly. "I saw the little touches, when you thought he wasn't paying attention or in the middle of a fight. Even before you suddenly decided to stop tormenting him, I knew. Maybe even before you knew. Maybe you don't even know now."

"I think you don't know what the fuck you're talking about," Draco said viciously, but there was a tremble in his voice.

"You're in love with him, Draco," she said, her eyes soft, pity welling inside her as Draco's eyes widened almost imperceptibly.

"Shut up!" he screamed, dropping his wand, running both hands through his long hair, curling his fingers into the strands and looking as if he was trying to tear chunks of hair from his head. He did not look sane. Hermione thought she knew why.

"Draco, when Sirius came back from Azkaban he was barely sane," she said gently. "You must be experiencing the same. Please, please do not do something you'll regret."

Draco turned his crazed eyes on her, letting go of his hair in favor of reaching down and grabbing his dropped wand. "Regret?" he said, and laughed. "You think I regretted killing Blaise and Pansy and Mandy? Because I didn't. I enjoyed it. Just like I'll enjoy killing this bastard."

"Draco." Her voice seemed to cut through his killing haze. "Please. For Harry."

He deflated almost immediately, his head drooping, hair sliding forward to cover his face.

"He told you what he knows," Hermione said, refraining from adding 'involuntarily' on the end of it. "Just -- let him live."

Draco looked at her, and his eyes were sane now but strangely more frightening -- because the bloodlust was still in his expression and the vengence was still in his eyes.

"For Harry's sake," he said quietly, "I'll make it quick."

And before she even had time to scream Draco had pointed his wand at Ron, and she had just enough time to see a brilliant flash of green light the same color as Harry's eyes, and see her husband's limbs go limp, before she fainted dead away.


	8. Chapter Eight

Mitzvahs

Chapter Eight

by Capella

A/N: You know the drill. Took a long time, etc. etc. etc. I love reviews.

* * *

"So do I answer you. 

The pound of flesh which I demand of him

Is dearly bought. 'Tis mine, and I will have it."

* * *

"I need your help."

"How did you find me?"

"When I first came to Hogsmeade, I saw you at the pub. I came back the next night and you weren't there. I figured out after a while that you come down here on Saturday nights after nine and stay until eleven."

"You realize how dangerous this is, being in public so soon after the break."

Incredulously, "It's been six months! And no one could possibly recognize me. The only people who have seen me like this since the break are dead."

Silence. And then, "You were the one who killed Parkinson and Zabini?"

"And Brocklehurst. You disappointed?"

More silence.

Softly, "Will you help me?"

"Why?"

"I have to get into Hogwarts. I just -- do."

Long pause.

"Who will you kill?"

Quietly, "I won't kill him unless I have to. He's just a means to an end."

"Who?"

"A teacher."

A sharp intake of breath.

"You know who I'm talking about, don't you?"

Silence.

"I don't think it's necessary to tell you how badly I need your help. And if you won't help me, I'm going to have to find a more violent way to get into the school." More silence. Desperately, "Please, professor."

Amused. "You don't have to call me Professor, you realize. You may call me Severus. Unless I am mistaken, you are no longer in school." A sigh. "Leave here now. I will follow you in fifteen minutes. Meet me by the east end of the Forbidden Forest. I will let you into the castle."

A fervent nod and a relieved smile. "Thank you -- Severus."

* * *

Remus was in his room, reading a dusty, old tome that Sirius had somehow found and had the good sense to buy him for Christmas almost twenty years ago. He passed a hand over the faded pages, smiling faintly, feeling the old, scarred wound of Sirius's absence reopening.

There was a knock on the door. He paused in his reading, putting down his glass of brandy, setting the book down on the small table next to his chair. The knock sounded unfamiliar -- it was not Snape's imperious knock nor McGonagall's sharp rap. Dumbledore never knocked.

He got up, wincing as the joints creaked in his knees, and walked to the door.

A vision from twelve years past walked in, looked around the room, stared into the crackling fire, and sat down in his chair.

Two steel-gray eyes looked up at him solemnly. He stood at the door, still staring, disbelieving, his hand still holding the door open.

"Close the door, Remus," Draco said softly. Remus blinked and obeyed.

"Draco Malfoy?" he said, unsure of himself for the first time in a long time. It looked like the Draco of almost thirteen years ago -- but his face was harder, his eyes steely. He had grown from the attractive, arrogant boy of seventeen into a hardened, beautiful man of twenty-nine. There was an emotion in his eyes that was vaguely unsettling.

Draco raised an eyebrow smoothly. "I imagine you have a few questions for me." His voice was low, a sharp edge to it that sounded impatient. "I'll let you have four. Perhaps after you are done with those, I might ask a favor of you."

Remus's head was slowly clearing of his shock. "I suppose my first question is the most obvious," he said dryly. "How did you get in?"

"Severus helped me. I met him at Hogsmeade."

"He helped you in?" Remus stared down at Draco, who was smirking faintly.

"Is that your second question?"

"No. Why are you here?"

"To ask you a favor and a question."

"Are you going to turn yourself in?"

Draco laughed. "You're growing senile in your old age, Remus. I've done nothing for which I should be jailed."

Remus pressed his lips together angrily. "You attacked Harry."

Draco serenely tucked a strand of long, blonde hair behind his ear. "Would you like to phrase that in question form?" Remus didn't say anything, staring down at Draco, his eyes hard. Draco sighed. "I did not attack Harry, precisely. And that was your fourth question."

"Good," Remus said, his eyes narrowed in a rare display of anger. "Now get out."

"Don't you want to know what my favor is?"

"No."

"Remus. Just give me five minutes." There was, in Draco's hard voice, a slight hint of pleading, and it made Remus's anger dissipate enough for him to actually consider Draco's request. "Please."

Remus walked to the other side of the room and sank into the leather recliner. He stared at Draco, his mouth a straight, tight line. Draco took his silence as permission.

"I am going to tell you what I haven't told anyone," Draco said slowly, emphasising each word, cold, gray eyes staring deep into Remus's own. "I'll begin with the night that I went home for Christmas break about twelve years ago."

"Your seventh year," Remus said softly. "You were becoming good friends with Harry."

"Yes," Draco said, and the absence of pain in his voice told Remus how deep that pain really ran. "My father discovered that friendship. At dinner, the last night, he demanded that I kill Harry, and he gave me a vial of poison. He punished me later that night to get his point across. If, in that moment when the punishment stopped, he had brought Harry into the room, I would have cut his throat without a second thought."

Draco paused. Remus saw the flickering candlelight flash across an old, twisting scar on Draco's cheek, and he thought that he understood.

"I went back to Hogwarts the next day and poured the potion down the toilet. My father had given me a knife as well, and -- and I wanted to kill Harry with that, instead. Harry invited me into his room that night. I pleaded with him to let me kill him." Draco's voice was cold. "I was terrified. Harry suggested that I just stab his shoulder instead, tell my father that I failed but I tried. I don't know why I thought it would work. I got Brocklehurst to get Snape, and then I went back to my room. Later that night -- or maybe it was the morning --"

"The Aurors came," Remus finished for him, his voice soft with sympathy. Draco's eyes hardened.

"Yes," Draco said flatly. "Were you at the trial?"

"No."

"They locked me into that chair, into those shackles. I thought -- I almost knew, up until the moment I was betrayed, that my father would defend me. And then I went to Azkaban, and the only thought keeping me sane was that Harry would say something, he would speak up and tell the whole plan and I would be set free. And then, Harry and I could pick up where we left off." Draco looked straight into Remus's eyes, but Remus could tell that Draco wanted to look away. "As each visitor came to me, as I used their visits to keep track of the years -- you came after a year and a half -- I kept waiting for Harry to reveal the truth." He sounded strained, speaking slowly, grasping for words. "Every newspaper that I was given I scanned with my heart in my throat, waiting for that front page article that would set me free -- waiting for the door to open and for Harry to walk in -- waiting for something that did not come. Instead, my savior came in the form of the Dark Lord, and I was forced to obey someone whom I despise in order to obtain the single desire which had been swirling around in my mind for twelve years."

Remus remained silent, knowing somehow that Draco was reaching the crux of his speech.

"I loved Harry," Draco said, stressing each word, his eyes deadly serious. "Now, I'm going to kill him. I want you to help me."

Remus found himself, for one of the first times in his life, at a loss for words. Draco sat back in the chair, looking drained but impatient. Remus opened his mouth and shut it several times.

Carefully, he said, "You want me to help you to kill Harry?"

"Yes. For what he has done."

"You want me to help you kill my dead lover's godson."

"Yes."

"How? Do you want me to walk up to his door and kill him myself?"

Draco smiled crookedly. "Almost. Just let me have a strand of your hair."

Remus shook his head, smiling a little in spite of himself. "Clever, Draco. But I'm afraid not." He stood up. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave. I'm sure you understand."

Draco did not stand. "You're going to call the Aurors and Dumbledore as soon as I leave."

"Most likely."

"You understand why I don't want you to do that."

"Of course. I assume this is not leading into a threat."

Draco finally stood, his movement graceful and smooth, and the motion was a threat in and of itself. "I don't do threats, Remus," he said softly. "Can I ask you a question?"

"No."

Draco ignored his answer and continued in a quiet, solemn tone. "What did Harry tell you about that night?"

"He said -- he told us that he didn't remember."

He stopped abruptly. Draco had not moved, but the light of anger was in his eyes.

"Son of a bitch," he said softly. "That lying son of a bitch." He cast his eyes to the side and met the startled gaze of Remus. The quietly enraged look on his face was far beyond any display of emotion that Remus had ever seen from Draco before. It was almost enough to make him back up.

"Sorry, Professor," Draco said, unsmiling and solemn. "I'm not asking your permission anymore."

* * *

"So you're saying that no one has any idea where he is." 

Kelley sighed and ran a hand through curly, sandy-blonde hair. Harry's glare didn't waver at Kelley's obvious discomfort.

"Look, Harry --" he began. Harry cut him off sharply.

"You have a legion of Aurors and you can't find one woman and one man with -- might I add -- rather bright red hair."

Kelley grinned crookedly, a smile which made his boyish, tanned face even more attractive -- a smile which he often used to disarm Harry when he visited with ambiguous news from the Ministry. Harry set his jaw to keep from grinning back.

"Come on, Harry," Kelley began dramatically, waving his arms around the room, "you know we're using all our available manpower on the escaped Death Eaters." He fixed long-lashed, dark green eyes on Harry with a look that said he was conferring to Harry a secret which no one else knew.

"I want the truth, Kelley. I know you were hired by the Ministry because you're good at dancing around the issues. But I've known you since my stay at St. Mungo's when you were in the bed next to me -- and I know that's the reason they pick you to come here and talk to me. But for once just be honest with me. I'd like to consider you a friend, one of just a few since I'm stuck in this house for who knows how long --"

"Just until we get this Death Eater business cleared up," Kelley interjected hastily, but quieted at Harry's glare.

"Just tell me. Who do you think is responsible for Ron and Hermione's disappearance, and when will they be found?"

"Harry --" Kelley started, sounding sincere but pained, and stopped. He pressed generous lips together tightly for a moment. "You really shouldn't be asking me this. I could lose my job."

"I don't care. I'm already losing my mind."

Kelley's lips quirked up in a half-hearted smile. He let out a loud sigh.

"Alright," he said, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet up on the kitchen table in a gesture of relaxation, although Harry could see the nervous tension in the lines of Kelley's neck. "We -- found Hermione. A week ago."

Harry sat up in his chair, his back ramrod-straight. "And you didn't tell me? What the hell were you thinking, Kelley?" Kelley winced.

"I know, Harry," he said, sounding genuinely remorseful. Harry narrowed his eyes. "We found her -- Jesus, Harry, I shouldn't be telling you this. The Ministry higher-ups said that if I tell you there's no knowing what you'll do --"

"Kelley."

Just his name was enough to make Kelley stop.

"She was at your house, Harry. In Surrey. Unconscious."

"What?"

Kelley rushed on as if he were afraid Harry would stop him. "She was lying on the floor next to a couch, her hands tied behind her back. Didn't look like a Stupefy; looked like she just fainted. But when she woke up, she acted -- insane. Like the Longbottoms or like that crazy old Professor of yours -- I don't know his name; he was gone by the time I got to Hogwarts. Babbling crazy things about revenge and about her husband. We had to restrain her and take her to St. Mungo's Psychiatric Ward. She's been there ever since we found her, a week ago. 'Bout three days ago she just went comatose, didn't say a word. Stares off into space and forces us to feed her, and then suddenly yesterday she bolts up in bed screaming that someone has to 'save Harry.' So -- here I am. Your savior." Kelley finished with a flourish, but his eyes were concerned.

Harry stared at Kelley, speechless with a blind sort of horror. Kelley opened his mouth several times and shut it. Finally he said, cautiously:

"There was blood on the floor. It wasn't Hermione's. She hadn't a scratch on her. We think -- we think that Ron was there at some point. We just don't know what happened to him."

Harry's mind was curiously blank. He was experiencing difficulties breathing. He stood up, and deep green eyes followed his movement mournfully.

"I have to -- go," he said, and started for the stairs.

"Harry --" Kelley called out, sounding sad. "You still can't leave the house."

"I know," Harry said softly, walking up the stairs and leaving Kelley's pitying eyes behind, walking into his room and falling face-down on the bed, blanking out thought until his mind was beautifully clear. Kelley did not follow him.

* * *

Kelley sighed again, getting up from the kitchen chair and pacing nervously around the table. He hadn't meant to upset Harry -- and he hated keeping things from Harry because of his job -- but he had gotten the job so easily at the Ministry at the ridiculously young age of eighteen. He bristled at thinking that it was because of the friendship he and Harry had formed, when Harry had been in the bed next to him at St. Mungo's. At the age of fifteen, he had been staying there for a bone marrow disorder, while Harry had been staying for his poison dagger wound. Kelley still remembered that night -- he had been sleeping when it had seemed a rush of people had swept into the room, and he'd seen a young, pale face, pinched in pain, lips pressed together to stop the cries. He had watched them administer the potions and spells as they tried to save his life -- 

And Kelley frowned as he remembered something he had not before, a flash of long, light blonde hair at the doorway, an aristocratic voice conferring with the head doctor -- something in a vial changing hands --

The doorbell rang.

Kelley jerked out of his thought with a curse, spilling the juice he'd absentmindedly poured for himself while deep in thought. He grabbed a handtowel on his way to the door, leaving his wand on the table.

Who the hell would know where this house was besides Ron, Hermione, himself, and --

He opened the door, and his fine features relaxed into a grin.

"Remus!" he said jovially, flashing pearl-white teeth at the visitor, wrapping an arm around broad shoulders. "Come on in!"

Remus looked down at Kelley with smiling eyes.

"Why, thank you --" he said softly, and paused. "I believe I've forgotten your name in my old age, young man."

"Old age?" Kelley said, laughing. "You don't look a day over fifty. And I'm Kelley Elliot, remember?"

"Oh, yes. I remember now -- Kelley. Why are you here?"

Kelley grinned, scuffing his tennis shoe on the ground. "Oh, you know the usual – just seeing where Harry wants to go for our date, all that jazz." He paused. "Are you here to see Harry, Remus?"

A slow smile. "Yes. I am."


	9. Chapter Nine New June 23

Mitzvahs

Chapter Nine

by Capella

A/N: SCHOOL IS DONE! Which means more updates for you! 

(on a tiny side note, OMGSTARWARSHOORAY!)

* * *

""Isn't there anyone on the air? Isn't there anyone on the air? Isn't there...anyone?"

Orson Welles, 1938 "War of the Worlds" broadcast

* * *

It had been at least an hour before Harry heard footsteps coming up the stairs. He sighed and put his hands on the edge of the desk, pushing his chair back and getting up resignedly. He touched the lamp that sat on the desk and it flickered on, glowing softly.

There was a quiet knock on the door.

Harry figured that it had been unusually patient of Kelley to give him this much time to think -- usually Kelley could only restrain himself for ten minutes or so before chasing Harry up the stairs to his room.

Harry opened the door and blinked in surprise. Remus was framed in the doorway, looking down at him, smiling.

"Kelley left," Remus said gently. "He said he had Ministry business to attend to. He told me that he thought he would leave you alone to think." He gave Harry another smile. "May I come in?"

"Oh!" Harry stepped to the side. "Of course."

Remus stepped into the room, and after the barest hesitation, he went to Harry's desk and sat down in the smooth chair. Harry sat on the bed instead, his hand kneading the quilt nervously -- although he could not pinpoint a reason for his nervousness.

"What are you doing home from school?"

"I asked Dumbledore if he would allow me to visit you. I knew that Ron and Hermione's disappearances must be weighing on you. I had hoped a visit would at least cheer you up for a little while." A pause. "I hope I am not disturbing you."

"No -- no, you're not disturbing me, Remus," Harry said. "Is there something wrong with your voice? You sound like you have a cold."

For the slightest moment, there was an odd look in Remus's eyes, one that spoke of hatred and pain -- and then it was gone, and all Harry could see were gentle brown eyes. Remus smiled and did not answer Harry's question.

There was a long pause, in which Harry could not think of anything to say; Remus sat at the desk, staring straight at Harry unnervingly, his fingers tapping softly on the mahogany wood of the desk. Harry's eyes were drawn to the long, graceful fingers for some reason -- they were almost hypnotizing in their rhythm. There was a dark substance underneath Remus's fingernails.

"Were you gardening, Remus?"

Remus started. "Excuse me?"

Harry pointed at Remus's hand. "It looks like you've dirt beneath your fingernails."

Remus looked down at his own hand. A slow, slow smile spread across his face, showing sharp incisors. "Dirt," he said softly. "No, not exactly, Harry." He stood up and began walking to the bed, his movements boasting a strange, alien sort of gracefulness which Remus had never possessed.

"Can I get you something, Remus?" Harry asked nervously, watching Remus come closer until he stood in front of the bed, right next to Harry's knees.

"No," Remus said, and sat down next to Harry so close that their thighs touched. Harry resisted the urge to move as the mattress sunk under Remus's weight.

"Remus --"

"Quiet, Harry," Remus said, his face close to Harry's own, and kissed him.

A thousand thoughts ran through Harry's mind in panicked little circles -- _ohmygodhe'skissingme_ combined with _isitafullmoon _and _iwonderifhekissedsiriusthisway _– and then Harry pulled back, his skin crawling in revulsion, staring at Remus with wide, confused eyes.

Remus smiled. There was a dangerous look about him.

"Why -- did you do that?" Harry choked out, scooting farther away on the bed.

Remus shrugged, a motion which Harry had rarely seen him do, and it looked unnatural. "Do you have the time?"

Startled, Harry looked at the clock sitting on the desk. "Four-forty," he said, and hated Remus's sudden smirk.

"Perfect," Remus said, and his wand was in his hand before Harry could even blink. "Petrificus totalus."

Harry stiffened where he sat, feeling as if liquid metal had suddenly been poured into his veins; the only thing he could move was his eyes, but even in his peripheral vision he could not see Remus, and he was left feeling desperately alone and frightened, still hoping somehow that this was just a joke.

Suddenly he felt the bed shift as if a weight had been lifted, and Remus came into his line of sight, bending down so his face was close to Harry's. Remus laughed.

"Let's get you more comfortable, dear boy," he said, and pushed down on Harry's shoulders. Harry's body bent obediently like putty under Remus's hands; Remus pushed him down until Harry's back hit the mattress. Remus smiled down at him and moved to the front of the bed, tugging on Harry's shoulders until he lay fully on the bed, his head resting on the pillows.

Harry tried to plead with his eyes as Remus almost lovingly unhooked his belt and drew it slowly out of the bellhops.

"Yes, this will do," he said, almost as if to himself, and laced the belt around Harry's wrists, bringing the end of the belt up to the headboard and tying it securely to one of the poles. "All right, Harry. You may struggle if you wish now. Finite Incantatem."

"Remus," Harry said, and licked dry lips. He didn't want to struggle, because if he struggled, it meant that what Remus was doing was real. "What are you doing?"

Remus raised an eyebrow. "I don't think you fully understand the gravity of your situation, Harry." He gestured at Harry's hands. "I would have thought that you, of all people, in the danger you are constantly in, would be a bit more cautious of letting people into your house and letting yourself relax."

Harry felt fear and anger coiling in his stomach. "But -- I don't understand why --"

"Of course not," Remus snapped. "You stupid boy, how could you ever possibly understand?" He stepped closer to the bed, ran a gentle hand through Harry's hair. Harry tossed his head angrily to try and dislodge the fingers. Remus chuckled. "But don't worry, Harry. You'll understand in time."

"Please don't," Harry whispered. "Please let me go."

Remus bared his teeth in a half-grimace, half-grin.. "Where's your spirit, Harry? Will pain bring it out of you?" Remus's wand was in his hand. For some wild reason, Harry did not think it looked the same as it usually did.

"No -- Remus, please!"

"_Crucio_!"

Liquid fire ran suddenly up Harry's spine and he arched, writhing in pain on the bed, a whiny grunt escaping his throat as the agony burned through his body. Faintly, through the haze of pain, he heard Remus laughing. He gasped as another jolt went through his body, his eyes wide and tearing, his wrists tugging on the belt in a desperate attempt to break free.

"Remus," he gasped with all the breath he had left in his body, tears running down his face. "_Please_!"

"Finite Incantatem."

Harry slumped to the bed, panting, sweat and tears running down his face, his shirt plastered to his back. He clenched his hands, tugging futilely on the belt, staring up at Remus.

"You're shaking, Harry," Remus said softly and ran his hand down the side of Harry's face, cupping Harry's wet cheek.

"What are you doing?" Harry whispered hoarsely, his chest heaving with his racing breaths. "Why are you doing this?"

Remus rubbed his thumb over Harry's lip. "You really haven't changed, have you?" he said, almost sadly, staring down at Harry with an uncomfortably intense gaze.

"What?"

Shaking his head silently, Remus continued his study of Harry's face, tracing the curve of Harry's cheek with his fingertips, ghosting over his eyebrows with the pad of a thumb.

"You know, Harry, in my few years as Defense against the Dark Arts teacher --" and here Remus paused, his lips twisting into a smirk as if he'd said something clever -- "I learned quite a few interesting, interesting spells." A hand drifted down to Harry's neck, stroking the skin there absently, sending shivers up Harry's spine. Harry stared at Remus, transfixed at the look on Remus's face, terrified at the direction in which Remus was going.

And yet -- even through the fear and the anger and the pain, Harry could detect subtle changes in Remus; there was a slight lilt to his voice that had not been there before, and a little bit of a twist at the right side of his mouth; he stood with his shoulders a bit hunched over as if burdened with some internal pain.

"One spell for every year?" Remus mused, so softly that Harry could barely hear. "No, perhaps not. For every beating?"

"Remus," Harry said, desperate. Before he could even begin another plea, Remus interrupted, sounding half amused, half incredulous.

"You still don't believe me, do you?" he asked, his hand still resting on Harry's throat. "I could choke the life out of you right now, and you would still die believe that I had not truly betrayed you." The hand tightened around his neck ever so slightly, and Harry's heart jumped in his chest. "Should I disabuse you of that notion right now?" Suddenly Harry could no longer breathe, his lungs seizing in his chest; he gasped desperately for air, pulling on the belt.

"Please --"

"Apologize," Remus snarled, using both hands now, pressing Harry down into the bed. There was a frightening, hysterical look in his eyes. "Apologize!"

Harry wheezed, trying to bring air into his lungs to speak. "W-why?" he managed, staring into the face of someone who was suddenly a stranger -- a stranger with familiar brown eyes.

Remus blinked and suddenly let go of Harry's throat, drawing back his hands as if Harry's skin burned him. "Oh dear," he said, an expression Harry had never heard him use before. "I've forgotten about the spells, haven't I? I don't want you to die too early, Harry."

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Harry's bruised throat.

Harry tried to blink away the reflexive pain-tears, his body still tingling from the Crucio, his throat feeling as if Remus's hands were still on him. Remus had just tried to kill him, had put an Unforgivable on him, had kissed him -- he felt confused, and scared, and hurt, and he wondered why he was not angry.

"Do you mind if I ask you a question, Harry?"

God. It hit Harry just then. What if Remus was a Death-Eater -- what if he'd been tricking everyone since day one, stringing them all along, stringing Sirius along --

What if he had been responsible for Sirius's death?

Was Remus going to interrogate him about Hogwarts, Dumbledore, or the Order of the Phoenix? But that was ridiculous -- Remus knew everything he knew, even more, probably. If Remus had wanted to kill them all, he could have lead the Death-Eaters right to all the members of the Order.

"Harry?"

"I don't know anything," he rasped, his throat sore from the near-strangling. "I don't know what you want."

Remus smiled gently as if he knew everything Harry had been thinking. "I'm not here after vital information, Harry," he said, and there it was again -- that difference in his voice, the swing on certain words, the sort of upper-class accent that made the voice Remus usually had sound as if he'd grown up in the back alleys of Liverpool.

And then, with Remus leaning over him smiling, his hand resting comfortably on Harry's hip, Harry realized. He realized why those eyes had seemed younger, why his voice was different, why Remus used mannerisms he had never used before, why Remus had kissed him. Why Remus had hurt him.

Harry shivered in revulsion. Remus raised an eyebrow.

"You look as if you've something on your mind, Harry," he said, his thumb stroking Harry's hipbone. "Is it something you wish to share with me?"

"Yes," Harry said hoarsely, his heart beating so loudly in his chest that he was sure Remus could hear. "Who -- who are you?"

Remus laughed. "Took you long enough," he said, grinning. He spread his arms wide. "Who do you think I am?"

"I don't know," Harry said weakly. "I don't care. If you leave now, I swear I won't tell anyone about this. I assume you used Polyjuice. Your hour's got to be almost up, so you're going to change back soon. You don't want me to see who you are, because the second you leave I'm going to get every Auror from the Ministry in here. Leave now and I won't report you."

Laughing, Remus shook his head. "You impress me by finding out I'm not really your beloved Remus, and then you backtrack ten steps. Do you really think you will be escaping this encounter alive?"

Harry sucked in a breath.

"You're going to --"

"Yes," Remus -- or whoever it was -- said, suddenly solemn. "I am going to kill you." He dragged Harry's desk chair up next to the bed and sat down, leaning back in the chair with a heavy sigh. "But it is only fair that I let you see who I am first. It's five-sixteen. I have two minutes. You will die in five."

Harry's mind raced. There had to be some way out of this. The belt was tied so tightly that Harry's hands were numb, and he'd tugged on it enough to know that it would not loosen. His wand was on the desk.

Harry looked over at Remus. Remus studied Harry closely with an expression that looked very close to sadness.

"You're really very beautiful, you know," Remus said softly. "I just wish --" He stopped abruptly, shuddering, gripping the arms of the chair tightly.

Harry watched avidly as Remus's skin writhed, turning pale; he remained almost the same height, perhaps a bit shorter. His hair lengthened to his shoulders and turned a light blonde; his features grew more delicate and pointed, his lips a bit fuller, his nose upturned. A faded, jagged scar appeared on one cheek.

Harry was staring straight into Remus's eyes when they turned a cold, pale gray.

"Oh my God --" Harry whispered, his mind so blank and shocked that he could not form words.

Draco smirked with beautiful lips, shrugging his shoulders. "Surprised, Potter?" he said, and his upper-class, drawling accent was now clear. "I told you fifth year I'd be dogging your footsteps in case you ever stepped out of line. I think this is an excellent time, don't you agree?"

"Draco?" Harry said cautiously. It was Draco, but he looked so different -- his features were beautiful, but there was a hard, dangerous look about him; he was taller, and his hair brushed his shoulders now. Harry had known that Draco had escaped with the rest of the inmates a half a year ago, but he hadn't really given it a second thought -- he'd assumed he was safe. After Voldemort hadn't found him for this long, he had felt secure.

"Yes, Potter," Draco said slowly, as if talking to an unusually stupid child. "I'm Draco Malfoy. I escaped from Azkaban so I could kill you. And now you have two minutes until you die."

Harry found that his mind simply could not grasp the concept of Draco, sitting right there in front of him. "But --" he started, and found he could not even think of how to phrase his question.

"Why am I here?" Draco supplied. "Why am I going to kill you? Why am I doing this? How did I get in? What do you want to ask me, Harry? I'll even wait until you're done asking questions to kill you." His full lips stretched over white teeth in a horrible grin. "Aren't I merciful?"

Harry jumped when Draco climbed on the bed and sat astride Harry's legs, steadying himself with a hand on Harry's chest.

"Draco," Harry said, his voice hoarse. "How --" He found he could not finish; there were too many questions whirling around in his mind for him to formulate even one. Draco seemed to understand.

"I'll just start from the beginning," Draco said, sounding bored. "Voldemort freed me from Azkaban with the rest of the prisoners and sent me to a safe location so I could practice my magic. I believe he knew I wanted to kill you. With nothing else to do but eat, I caught up on my magic quickly, using the books Voldemort's followers sent me. I left the cave after a while, delivered some payback, snuck into Hogwarts to steal hairs from your beloved werewolf, and came here."

"But -- you sounded almost exactly like Remus. You said almost the same things he would have said. How --"

Draco's smile was delighted. "Potter, really," he drawled, in a tone that was uncannily like how he talked years ago in Hogwarts. "I have had exactly eleven years, three months, and five days to perfect my Remus Lupin impersonation. Although I thought you would have known him well enough to see that he wasn't quite himself."

Harry felt afraid to ask his next question. "Remus -- he's alive, isn't he?"

Looking almost remorseful, Draco shook his head and shrugged. "I couldn't leave him alive to tell anyone where I was going, Harry," he said softly. "You have to understand that."

"You fucker," Harry whispered, numbly.

Draco's face changed from sincere remorse to violent rage so suddenly that Harry knew, in a moment, that there was no question that he was completely mad. He leaned down and hissed,

"I killed your boy, you know,"

into Harry's ear, his breath hot on Harry's neck. Harry froze, his shudders going still.

"What?" he asked, and Draco leaned back up, the triumph on his face made not a little bit frightening by the way his lips curled back from his teeth.

"When I knocked on the door, he opened it. Thought I was Lupin, and he invited me in. Stupid. Attractive, though."

Harry's lips were numb. There was a dull roaring in his ears.

"I would have had some fun with him before I killed him, if I'd had the time. But you're my top priority, Harry, so it was the killing curse for him, I'm afraid. His body's still downstairs by the door, getting cold now, I imagine. And he thought Lupin did it, too."

Harry hissed in wordless anger, his hands curling into claws. Two dead, now. "What did he do to you?"

"He touched you."

"What --" Harry started, feeling sick and dazed, and hopelessly confused. "We weren't even -- involved. He was a friend from the Ministry, telling me about Ron's disappearance."

Draco paused, and then shrugged. "I suppose it does not matter, in the long run. I've killed ten people already."

"Ten?" Harry breathed.

"Blaise, Pansy, Brocklehurst, Weasley, Lupin, in that order, I believe. And in between Weasley and Lupin I took some time out to kill those five bastards who took me to Azkaban."

Harry felt fresh tears spill over. Ron, Kelley, Remus -- dead. He couldn't find the breath to say anything at all. The only blessing was that he knew Hermione was alive.

"Why did you -- kiss me?"

Draco smiled, almost gently. "That kiss was just to fuck with your mind, Harry," he said, smoothing Harry's hair back from his sweaty forehead. "I simply wondered what I could do to you by making you think that your dead godfather's lover wanted you. The look on your face when I kissed you was absolutely sublime. You look your best when you're stunned and hurt, Harry."

"Why are you doing this?"

"No," Draco said. Harry blinked up at him in surprise.

"What --"

"You know what you did, Potter. Think back to eleven and a half years ago. Do you remember the promise we made?"

"Promise?" Harry said slowly, and Draco made a growling noise, deep in his throat.

"Yes, a promise, you little idiot," Draco snarled, his gray eyes flashing angrily. "The reason I ended up in Azkaban was because you didn't keep it."

Harry blinked. "But -- I thought you ended up in Azkaban because you -- attacked me." He winced when Draco's fingers dug into his biceps.

"Liar," Draco said angrily. "Don't lie to me, Potter. God_damn_ you, don't you lie to me." His gray eyes flashed, and Harry was caught breathless for a moment as he stared up at Draco, who had somehow grown more beautiful in the time he'd spent in Azkaban, and was reminded of the tentative hug they had shared in Harry's dorm room before --

Harry shut his eyes tightly for a moment, the beginnings of a headache growing behind his eyes. As usual, when he tried to think back to that night when he had been attacked, he could not remember a thing. His head pounded.

A finger stroking his lips made him open his eyes. Draco was bending over him, his face so close to Harry's that Harry could feel Draco's soft breath puffing on his lips. Blonde hair hung down, almost touching Harry's cheeks. "Maybe you'd like to find out what it's like to kiss me without Polyjuice, Harry?" All the rage was gone from Draco's voice.

Harry finally found he could speak. "Draco --" he started. Draco placed his thumb over Harry's lips.

"Just let me --" Draco murmured, sounding suddenly desperate, leaning down and pressing soft lips to Harry's own. Draco's hand traced the lines of Harry's face as they kissed, and Harry could almost feel Draco's sadness and anger and hate.

"No," Harry whispered into Draco's mouth. Draco froze, and Harry opened his eyes to see Draco looking as unguarded as Harry had ever seen him, emotions chasing themselves across his face. He leaned back quickly, sitting on Harry's legs. His face closed off again, becoming cold.

"Your two minutes are up, Potter." He reached into his pocket for his wand and pointed it at Harry's throat, the tip digging into Harry's skin.

"I loved you," Draco said softly. Harry's eyes widened and he tried to speak, but he could see Draco's lips forming the curse that would end his life.

He shut his eyes and waited.


End file.
